Fall 2006

Volume 1, Issue 2




This bridge looks down
onto a curve, a small bend
in a great freeway
that began some thousand and a half
odd miles ago
at the southern border,
that rides north, disappears
into the night.
I’ve said nothing
out loud. I’ve stopped
and looked down, my wife
sixteen paces ahead.
Must I call this romantic,
this soft curve in the road,
not unlike that of her breast,
when she lies on her back.
This road, I’ve ridden
countless times, through
all the worst places,
glamorized in moments
such as this, when I’ve taken
just enough in my belly,
when the night is late enough
to be complete, but not so late
to leave the bend without headlights,
or the soft squeal of tires,
or the ever so brief
flashes of faces, that not
even I have time
to presume upon, who ride
further north
tonight, towards that second
border, towards something
invariable and sweet.


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© 2006 Americana: The Institute for the Study of American Popular Culture