Hitch
by Michael McNeilley
Your postcard came in from Fresno
without you, though you said you
might pass through, and I write this down
because there's no return address, again.
I was really sorry to hear Bob died.
But to see you on the road again so soon,
it worries me that every time the clouds
roil up and break across your life you fall
back into your old dream, dreaming yourself
out there on a dark road hitching,
and a car pulls up and stops,
and you always just get in,
no matter if the car seems nice or not,
as if there might never be
another car.
Somewhere, someone must have convinced you
to fear that car might be the only one.
But there is always another car, and another,
and cars continue to pass the spot,
long after you've gone,
some of them nice cars,
and they leave little whirling
dust devils in the dry leaves
by the side of the road
in the silence where you stood.
And down the road, again you ride,
though you sneeze into the ashtray,
wishing for a bag to dump the butts in,
wishing, whoever he is,
he would say something.
If you do go back east the way you planned,
perhaps you'll miss the snow. I hope you find
an early spring, and that this car runs steady,
all the lights are green, the road is clear,
and when they come, the words serene.
