The Road

The road makes me weary.

Mile after mile ticked off, like the ticking of a clock.

The rhythm of the road measured in the steady thumping of tires passing over seams in the concrete slabs, front wheels then rear in rapid succession, like a heartbeat on adrenaline.

Tired eyes, bloodshot and blind, from scanning the road ahead in setting sun and halogen headlights.

Fuel running low in both tanks, I pull over in search of sleep.

Yet sleep proves elusive, road shakes stirring me like unwanted caffeine.

Sodium light filters in through plastic curtains.

The A/C cycles on and off, the air cool but stale.

18-wheelers drone by on the highway.

Footsteps rumble down the hall, and a door clanks shut.

Where are they coming from?

Where are they going?

I could be anywhere.

Which chain I’m in I can’t remember.

I pad across the carpet, and splash cold water on my face.

Strangers coming and going, crossing paths in anonymity, with perhaps a nod or hello or good morning at the coffee pot at breakfast, the news in this distant town too loud on the TV up on the wall.

Then we go our separate ways, some towards the rising sun, some towards the waning moon.

We all return to the road.