Riding Shotgun

July 2 2011

The hitch-hiker

thumbs a ride,

the universal sign

of the supplicant.

Brake lights flare

through shrapnel and dust

churned-up

on gravel shoulders.

The car, idles up the road

exhaust rumbling,

like a purring creature

impatient for motion.

The passenger seat, if it’s open

  —  riding shotgun.

Because the back is presumptuous,

reducing the good Samaritan

to your personal chauffeur.

And hitch-hikers make people nervous

lurking behind them,

twisting the rear-view mirror

so you can see his eyes,

shooting furtive glances

covering his back.

But now,

road warriors

meet as equals.

The usual polite conversation.

But then things change

in the rarefied air

of a stranger’s car  —

when paths unexpectedly cross;

then, forever gone.

Which sets you free

to re-invent yourself

embellish

glamorize.

And the talk gets deep

when you’ll never meet

again.

Soul-baring confession

sex

even politics.

Careful for rednecks

and perverts, of course.

If it’s a family

you squeeze in

to the middle of the back bench-seat,

feet on the hump

staring at your knees.

An object of curiosity,

perhaps admonished

by a mother

who imagines yours.

There are black holes

in the middle of nowhere

on the main highway west.

And back roads,

where no one ever stops.

Nights

are a total write-off.

So you learn to surrender

to fate, and circumstance,

remain unattached

to a hard-and-fast schedule.

Like a master of Zen

you are mindful of every moment

at the side of the road,

stuck

in rain and sun

and boredom.

And especially dusk

when swarms of bugs

devour you  —

the only warm-blooded mammal

for miles.