Night drive

 

red moon presides
over a harvest-cold sky,
a right light
for the night drivers
 
fortress trucks
scream speed
from behind their running lights,
knowing they will never
run out of road
 
and the car drivers,
gunning hard to steam past,
rejoice in the easy swoosh
of smooth blacktop,
the lull of the radio,
and the sweet nirvana
of just going

From the Hudson Line

Chatty girls

run dialogue

through the miles

—puke stories

and mistaken texts,

who is where

and Spanish wraps.

Trackside

the mounds of rubble

are overgrown,

ghosts of labor

years ago,

dreams and hard work

now unknown.

Grind of history

merciless still,

but we power through

with power and will.