Tomah, WI

 

 

The diesel jake brake from the distant interstate.  Far off train whistle blows.  The traveler cannot be suppressed.  Trapped on the skirts again, longing for an arrival, a departure, now any kind of motion to anywhere.  Desperation breeds desperate measures, viable farfetched solutions.  Put it all together in the cornfield, shimmering mud made deep by spring runoff.  Never seen so much I couldn’t humanize. 

“Visions from life’s other side.” 

Suddenly everything was hinged upon going. 

 Slugging rotgut from the bottle in the parking lot. 

Staring at the familiar blue and red highway compass as headlights reflected off of it dancing in the warm night air. 

 I have become a highway ghost.  Lost to the side of the road, the parking lot.  No one notices because no one wants to.  Just don’t ask for help.