Interstate 35

Roads, die-straight,
the slipstream journey,
blurred red oak and mesquite,
scrub-flanked trees,
tires on pavement,
air-conditioned wind,
the insistence of wheels,
anesthetize the traveler.

There are
towns and buildings,
comfort breaks
and truck-stops,

Signs and billboards
on squat, rectangular walls
advertise nothing of importance.

Windowless complexes,
monstrous and alien,
rise out of the grades,
towering monoliths.

Twisted snake-pits of pipes,
stanchions, and gantries,
wind around silos that breathe
the exhaust of industry.

Grim-fenced concrete
hides what lies inside,
forbidding,
like correctional facilities.

Cities roll into one;
downtowns hover
like specters
in the horizon air,
blue-hazed Xanadus
promising greatness
no highway leads to:
heaven with no stairway.

Southbound USA: land of the brave,
home of the few who are truly free.

© BH, 2023

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I was on it heading to San Antonio from Dallas. Relentless roads. Straight and insistent. Like the wheels, as I say. Industry and illusion rising in the air like ghosts…