These Hazy Days

Interstate Nothing

Scotchbroom -- red rock --
Sky and clouds. A bottle
Of lukewarm water settled
In the fold of the passenger
Seat. Fabric loose and floral
Rippling in the AC's wind.

You exhale. And inhale.
And the road is hard
Beneath you, beneath the
Skimming wheels. A song
Is timid on the radio,
Slipping into crackle
And slipping out again
Until the singer's voice is
Blurred past comprehension.

You sigh and take a drink
From that water bottle --
And the experience is
Mediocre at best -- it's like
A broth of faded Gatorade
And the smell of waterpark
Rugburns. On the radio, the
Song dissolves to crinkle
And you're getting a headache.

So you shut off the radio and
Root with one hand through
Your first CD case, the one you
And your boyfriend bought
In July of 1996. Inside you've
Placed an array of playlists
You've created in the past --
Little Rock Lonesome, one
Says in purple Sharpie --
'Francisco Fever is another --
There are countless CDs here,
All desperate distractions or
Mindless celebrations
Built around the tumults of
The open road.

Your hand skims Doldrums
Of Nevada and Seattle Street Mix
And one of your favorites, called
Ecstatic in New Orleans --
But they've all been used too
Often, and now is not the time
Nor the place to listen to them.

For where you are, it's nothing.
You're nowhere in the world.
It's nothing, nothing at all.

There's no loneliness,
There's no itching, there's
No bustle, there's no joy --
There's not even such a lack
Of things, that this could be
Considered doldrums.
No. None of these.
You see, you are tired but
It's not a pressing weight that
Hollows your chest. No, it's
An absence of discomfort,
There's nothing there at all.

Your eyes happen upon a
CD that's tucked into a corner.
It bears no scratch or patch
Of grime -- not even a small
Scrap of dried pasta sauce.
There is simply one word:
Untitled.
You clench it tight in your
Hand and slide it into
Slot #3 -- removing Maine's
Majesty. You turn the volume
Up, close your eyes.
There's nothing out here
To see, nothing to hit, nothing
To remember or forget.

You see the black of your
Eyelids and hear the first
Song start. You begin to
Sway in the nothing of
Your own making,
To the list you made
Years ago.