highway mouth

i start talking to the highway 
when it thickens to elsewhere territory.
empty motels like fisheyes 
in the blueing dark. we discuss
the weather. we muse about the trash 
& the people who come with smashed-plate knees 
to try & clean it up. the highway is sometimes
more cynical than me. we always get
to talking about the future of which
the highway does not believe in.
he is always trying to tell me 
that it is the last day on earth. i am 
by no means an optimist but 
at the very least i try to be curious.
i tell the highway, like a mother,
"the sun might have a video game 
to play tomorrow." i don't think opposites
attract so much as they intrigue one another.
the highway tells me he wants someone
to stay. no overnight. not passing through.
he wants someone to lay down on
his asphalt neck so that he can
feel them when he swallows. so that
no matter who passes through that there
is someone to keep him company.
hours in, he works up the courage to ask
if that might be me. the highway is not
a romantic. he is a rocking chair kind
of body. craves lullabies & shoelaces.
we pass a truck stop where men 
are sitting on the tops of picnic tables
& trying not to kiss each other. 
i leave the highway & his voice turns
into a turn signal's clicked tongue. 
i know one of my jobs in this world is to 
keep the liminal spaces company. i never make
promises. sometimes being a body is enough.
when i was small, i used to ask my mom
to roll down the car window so that
i could converse with the wind. she always agreed
& conjured the voice of the wind for me. 
now when i open the window, the air
talks freely. i love the way there is always
a mouth if a silence comes to eat you. 
i want to take the highway home. make him
a tv dinner. sit on the couch. brush his hair.