The Bug

Thursday morning by the side of the road
shit, fucking, god-damn cold
got my life in my grey backpack
thumb out, sun on my back,
Trucks speed by with nar a blink
I wonder what it is they think
two-lane ribbon of asphalt dreams
is life ever what it seems?

You slow down in a vintage Bug
over your shoulder, give a shrug
I rush your way and click the latch
and I wonder if there is a catch,
Why would you stop for someone, me
side of the road in the sagebrush sea
rapist, murderer, hoodlum, crook
poet, dreamer, dime-store book,

“Thanks for the ride” I smile and say
“how’s your morning, how’s your day”
you say “it’s fine … where you goin’?”
“anywhere the wind’s blowing …,”
You offer coffee from a Thermos bottle
mash your foot down on the throttle
the engine noise jogs my brain
long ago in a Boulder rain,

Same Volkswagen engine sound
out for a ride, messing around
caught in the rain with a flat front tire
dripping wet clothes in front of a fire,
We hang them up and let they drip
on the floor, take a sip
bottle of wine, Swiss Army knife
pour two glass and toast to life,

Back in the present you drive with skill
we discuss the nature of Free Will
the freedom to do as we please
the Open Road, the eternal tease,
Later we joke about that day
things we did, and didn’t say
things we did, and didn’t do
how the milepost, past us, flew …