The road is an angry snake, buckling up beneath you
twisting you off your feet and to your knees.
Some people say they live on the road, but no one lives
on the road -- the road lives on you, sucks the youth out of you
like a snake sucking milk out of a piece of wet bread
leaves you dry and old and bony, white-haired and squint-eyed
skin brown and cracked from too much sun.
You might trick someone fresh on the path
that you’re wise and you’ve learned something by living out here
that you radiate past adventures and illicit, no-consequences conquests
but it’s all an illusion, and you’ve become part of the trap.
You’re the bait.
The road is a vicious snake, twisting to both ends of the horizon
and you never know if you’re walking towards a head that will devour you
but you might as well just accept that you are. Sometimes
the road is a snake with two heads. Somewhere out there
is an ocean, or your family, or a broken-down car
with a glovebox packed with treasure
something that might all of this worthwhile, a Capital D Destination
but that’s not for you anymore, now that you’re out here.
These are the impossible dreams that will haunt your campsite at night
as you’re lulled to sleep by the hissing of passing cars
and something else.