American Roads

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Accelerating up the straight, white line

she pushes back the horizon even further back

and I am pressed back into the seat,

belt loosening up, light-headed and quiet.

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She's garrulous in the American way.

one hand on the wheel, most of the time,

as the other, restless, selects from

coffee, phone, cigarette.

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We're travelling back from her old Amish friends,

leaving grey whiskers and dark ragged clothes,

heading back towards daylight saving and sidewalks;

and she talks all the time as we speed on our way.

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Indentikit farms slide past outside

each with its own silage tower.

We make good time up the wide endless valley,

sun blasting down from a yawning blue sky

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and though we must travel between two points

it is also between two American times

and she's in a third place all of her own

fretting away about where she is bound.

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