for Charles Baxter
I out-read the marginalia:
the last pencil tread
was a lone exclamation point
on page 73. A scenic overlook,
a historical marker. My mother
always pulls over to read and ponder:
is any of it true?
I turned west on a narrow
highway sketched on a paper napkin.
That road gave me to another,
equally lonely, and I made
good time, feeding the horses
gasoline. At last I saw mountains
like the blue base of a flame,
and I turned the page.
What I needed was a motel by dark
and a glass of any wine.
I grew anxious. Many years had passed
since I could, like a gypsy,
sleep wherever I found myself.
Then through the windshield glare
I saw a hitchhiker, even more desperate
than I was, his destination
scribbled on a cardboard sign.
My foot touched the brake,
then the gas again.