Going eighty on I-80,
Eighteen-wheeler on my rear.
Ending up as road kill,
Is my nascent fear.
Seven days of pounding,
Concrete ridges bore.
Counting miles and time,
Like someone’s keeping score.
Or smoothly tires screaming,
Siren above the roar.
Safety grooves a singing,
An ear-piercing soar.
Music pulsing to the beat,
Cruising down main street.
Looking for America,
And finding only traffic.
So put some magic,
In these controls.
Make them fly
Like pilot’s souls.
Above these asphalt,
And concrete trails.
Where the sun sets,
On cloud’s wispy tails.
And every trip,
Has a silver lining.
Image from the Road
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Copyright 2007 © Ronald W. Hull
10/14/07