Highway 14

There are pebbles underfoot
I've been kicking them for an hour now.

The sun, like a diamond,
burrowing
burrowing

I shut my eyes and the world goes sideways;
the colors of vomit:
blue against red.

My second skin is running;
I am a candle
dripping into my shadow.

The highway shoulder flexes
leaden corpuscles out
into the sky.

No sign of a car,
nothing but seven miles of heat before
anything.

I check my pockets for the 15th time
and come up with the same sweat-soaked square of paper
labeled: Camel.
I squash it so that its mouth leans open:
nothing.

My face is old.
Seven days of dirt, hate and head creeps;
a headache screams behind my eyes.

My jaws clench against teeth that will never pay for themselves.

Tearing the top from the wet pack in frustration,
something tumbles to the ground.
Two somethings.
I laugh and smile,
I pick up the damned things and smile.

“Sneaky bastards,” I say to them,
“Thought you could avoid me?”

Sticking one of the camels in my mouth
feeling it instantly adhere to my lower lip;
I make a mock inhale,
and rip the thing away from my mouth
spitting out a bit of tobacco.

...seven damn miles...
I stare into the sun,
blinking back everything.

What I wouldn't do for a light.