fog swirls
over roads once strolled
shadows drifting
in the folds of my mind
forming stories in the gray
It’s 9 pm. A truck stop in the distance peers from the dark, welcoming. The on-ramp is quiet, and it’s been a weary day. I hoist my backpack and head toward the lights, three dollars in my pocket, with the goal in mind to get myself a cup or two of hot chicken broth.
I push the button on the coffee machine and a cup drops down. A stream of broth begins to flow. It’s the only thing I can stomach from this device. It will keep me warm for the moment, a little comfort to remind me of home, a 25-cent swallow or two of Heaven on the road. Put another quarter in the slot, order a second helping of sustenance before stepping back out into the neon Iowa night.
I approach a truck driver and ask if he might give me a lift. He tells me the corporation forbids giving anyone a ride. Trudging back to the on-ramp, I study the glow of lightning deep in the distant sky. For three hours, cars and trucks drive by, ignoring my thumb as if it was a mile marker. Exhaustion sets in. It’s time to sleep, but where? I watch the lightning edge closer. Between the rumble of engines, thunder.
I walk into the tall grass between the highway and the on-ramp, pull out my sleeping bag and hunker down. Headlights sweep over me as the traffic flows. I toss and turn as the wind picks up and the storm approaches.
There’s no such thing as sleep. As the first hint of dawn arrives, lightning dazzles the world around. Just as I finish rolling up my bag, the rain begins to patter. Before I get to the road, I’m drenched in a Midwest monsoon.
I’m standing in a light show, taking a shower, the cold wind chafing my bones. Thumb extended from a shivering arm, car after truck after car after truck. Will I melt into this puddle growing at my feet?
Finally, a minivan pulls over, rusted and a hundred-years-old. I jog to the door. The driver tells me, “Put your pack in the back.” I settle in and we’re off. “Sorry,” he says, “the heater doesn’t work.” I stare down at cracks in the pavement through holes in the ancient floor.
the pilgrim
on a journey through time
finds a broken watch
realizes he’s arrived
just in time
