I’m driving towards Texas,
crossing the Oklahoma panhandle.
Jesus, take the wheel.
I have a Saint Christopher on the visor,
a hula gal on the dash,
a Split Lip sticker on the bumper.
It should take seven hours
to reach my destination.
I check my watch,
reset the trip odometer,
for mileage purposes.
I see a sign for Hooker,
ignore at my own peril.
She has her boots off,
legs crossed,
feet dangling out the window.
There is a tattoo on her instep
that reads “SIN.”
She didn’t ask where we were going,
she knew I couldn’t answer.
I can tell she’s growing impatient,
as she lights another American Spirit.
Nothing’s coming over the scanner,
so I switch it off.
I turn up the radio.
It fades between ranchera
and Paul Harvey,

and the static grows louder by the day.

_
Trenton Lee Tiemeyer is a poet and artist living in Kansas City, Missouri. He’s madly in love.