Rest Stop

Drawn as though to a lure on a line
the driver parks between rock and far space,
the chill air a whistle along one seam,
its tune a waver, mystical,
like the cry he has caught,
hands loosening the wheel
dropping away
as the wind dies
where he stares
across the barren lot.
 
His old van shudders one last time
and is still. Listening to the silence
he frames his complaint:
Utah to the west, Florida to the east,
and here his nadir.
Is there no escape?
 
He will stay, he decides,
until the answer comes.
 
On the lone table
fruit flies on a melon rind.

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