Careening down the interstate
I pass the spirits
of drivers long past
who in their rush
listening to NPR, Springsteen, or Rap
have left their souls behind.

The spirits pause
to drink from the glistening dew
beside the road
carrying their dreams
in handkerchiefs
tied to long sticks
like hobos
of yesteryear.

On my way
to soul crushing work
I wonder
where I’ve left
my spirit
and what I can do
to protect it.

The travel guide of souls
is hidden
in the white washed graffiti
of bridge abutments
where the homeless sleep
and the Gospel of the travelers
once easier to find
in the eyes of waitresses
at the Mom and Pop diners
along the way
are still there
obscured
in the bright plastic light
of fast food joints.

I look for hints in the differing
groves of trees
along the way,
in the sunlight
reflecting off the reservoir
and the giant fluffy clouds
which seem to be
in no rush.