I didn't get her name but I always stopped at the same cafe on my way through.
It’s eight hundred fifty-eight miles from LA to Santa Fe, and I’ve never been too late.
I asked her once about the bites on her arms,
and she tells me that around here the mosquitos don’t know when to quit.
So I spent my breaks smoking cigarettes and blowing smoke under the awning where they gather,
in hopes of scaring them away.
There’s a light at the end of the bathroom hallway,
and if they tell me she isn’t working,
I pray that she’s just washing her face.
It’s a long trek; it’s hours spent- just counting the highway lines.
I once heard ghosts can’t run as fast as truckers do.
I wasn’t running away from anything, until they bought an electric trap,
and I found out that they fired you.
There’s a gas station not far from here,
they play Yahtzee two times every week.
When your dice stop, I’m dying to see the face you play,
and if it matches the busy Arizona sky.
Then there’s that frustration that I know
of never being able to get off your boots on a hot summer night.
We weren’t made for this,
this life is a tourniquet
that we tied without the right length of bedsheets
or the knowledge of a sailors knot
in a desert that
I spent my previous life traveling through.