I-40 to Flagstaff by Colin Dodds


Sunglasses on my eyes,
a seatbelt across my heart and the stereo in my ears.
I say I want to be free.
But I can’t get comfortable.

Smears on the windshield, can’t find the cupholder,
pump the brakes for the traffic cop.
Death feels near, and freedom
hardly deserves the name.

I buy beer at the Pay-and-Take
by the Church of the Praying Indian
where white men ride motorcycles,
trying to go native.

On the mountainside, I listen long and drink deep
of silence’s whistle-ring-hiss.
The stars wave off my alibis,
absorb my rage and reciprocate the rest.

©Colin Dodds 2015

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