Highway Nine

Highway Nine

Nine hundred miles and not a sign
of God or His benign design;
just Man with gun and pickup truck,
and sin that shoots a hole in luck.

Eight hundred miles of twisted fate,
infinity a sleeping eight
that rises from the steamy tar
and calls her light down from her star.

With seven tens times ten again,
this highway bends to now and then
mirage deformed by parallax,
a sainted beast with many backs.

Six hundred miles that curses mix
from broken bones to stones and sticks,
to hatred for that hijacked Name
who takes the heat and takes the blame.

Five hundred miles, and five to drive
to peace that leaves its charm alive,
for love that takes us to the chance
of shattered dream and drunken dance.

With four to go before I know
the wreck which kills us from below
a Hell of speed and brutal greed
where in the night our devils breed.

Three hundred miles of fantasy
distorted into you and me,
a phantom rent by what was sent
to bleed us in our discontent.

Two hundred miles, two hundred due
before I drive my love for you
away from strain and waning night,
the charnel mares of false delight.

With ten times ten my travel then
will end and once begin again
in search of what we must resign
along our ride down Highway Nine.