the tar is sticky hot and the air stinks
at the roadside pull off
sharp black rocks and strings of flecked toilet paper
condoms and KFC
beneath pretty white concrete benches
wafting plastic on the run
trucks thunder the infinite loop
railway tracks wait in hope
dreaming of the years
when little towns served people
some drivers sleep
gather broken speedy breath
curtains flap over tight windows
but mostly
we’re moving
sometimes there are cars
families with maps, and caravans
also municipal managers
roadside crews
orange uniforms
red flag wavers
diggers and drivers and stop / go operators
leaning into heat
kids in rags under trees
poke sticks down stubby holes
while the guy who’s always walking
walks and clusters of family artists
hock silver tin windmills
on the rocks of fast food islands
it’s close to evening and the heat is gaining
the wind’s so fast it’s singing
girls wait under bright green willow trees
drivers stop, there is food and rest and fucking - and something like laughter
nothing is ok
everyone is living
we’ll be in the winelands soon