Cross Country Walk

the highway noise stays with you
at night, when the blisters pulsate like phantom parasites, bleeding through bandaids.

little things are remembered, the grasshoppers, the buzz of insects, the hot sun eating through your T-shirt,
burning a round hole on your shoulder.

farmers' fields undulate and seem
pleasant when driving, but they
become just another hill as you
stride in the dust along
the two-lane blacktop.

flat surfaces are adored, the legs stretching, the arms not pumping so hard, the head not leaning forward into the grade.

motorists wave or try to run you down, just to scare you, they'd say, just poking a little fun at the stupid guy walking at noon, the temperature eighty-five and rising.

you take to dreaming, opening part of the brain not accessible except on winter nights by the fire.

you remember kids you knew, back when they would call your name outside, joey, joey, if they wanted you, if they felt like reading comics, or playing softball in the lot, bases made from old tires.

joey, joey, joey, they'd sing, high note on the jo, low note on the ey, a memory scratched near Silver Lake, Kansas, a long train keeping pace with your footsteps, both of you going west through the plains, the train clacking, then blowing its mournful horn.