I’ve got another hour and a half on the road
and I’m looking for a poem
in the grey branches
beside the interstate
and the women
putting on their make up
as they drive
or the old men
drinking their coffee and smoking cigarettes
as they head off
to the same old job.

I’ve got another hour and a half on the road
and I’m looking for a poem
as I see a young mother
shouting over her shoulder
at her kids
to settle down
as she drives past
the twisted metal
that was once part
of a car.

I’ve got another hour and a half on the road
and I’m looking for a poem
as I see the remains of an old barn
with a for sale sign
that must have been part of a farm
before the interstate came through
and a man in a van
talking on his cellphone
passes
with a license plate
that reads Zone Five
like he’s driving out of a bad
cyberpunk novel.

The GPS tells me
“In a quarter mile keep left to stay on I-91 North”
and when I arrive, what will I have?