RUSTED MILES
An ominous trail
in their dark ashes—
each ellipsis
hid a treacherous bend.
I feel the camper’s
hollow rattle
between cracked ribs
that won’t quite mend.
Not their youth,
but mine—
still burning
in oil-smoke haze
too thick to see.
Torn nights
of endless yearning—
a senseless chase
I couldn’t face,
and wouldn’t flee.
Would the dust
of reckless trysts
still stir—
and burn again?
Would my reading
turn to riding
that soulless path,
the camper’s sin?
The snare of wishing
for what’s long missing—
new campgrounds,
starlit nights...
But on that road,
the rain keeps falling—
and all that’s left
are rusted rites.
- An echo to a friend's "Road Trip"
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