Interstate Highway 5
Boring. Not me, I
like the contours
of the hills,
the smooth shapes
that so resemble
a sleeper who
lies dreaming
on her side.
Thousand-acre orchards
of peaches, pistachios,
raisin vineyards,
walnuts, and nectarines
Tumbleweed and
prairie scrub where
the land looks
as endless as the sea.
Where the owls nest
underground and
kit foxes hunt
kangeroo rats on
moonlit nights.
No towns adjacent
to the twin ribbons
of pavement, just
metastatic clusters
of Chevron, Shell and Arco.
Each station with
a mini market stocked
with six dozen brands
of energy drinks,
sodas, flavored
sparking waters
packaged sandwiches,
microwave burritos
and sausage, egg and cheese
muffins or biscuits.
Roller hotdogs, trucker caps,
cheap cowboy hats.
smokeless tobacco,
vape cartridges and
the scent of stale coffee.
Endless chains of trucks.
Classic retail may be dying
but all that stuff still gets
sold online and Fedex, UPS,
and Amazon are busy
hauling it from port to town.
It all moves at eighty plus.
Roll at seventy and you
get rolled over by Hondas
Fords, or Chevys. Volvos.
Toyotas or Teslas.
The California Aqueduct
snakes back and forth
beside the freeway,
fed by water that flowed
in rivers before the
cities and the farms
got so thirsty. There
are largemouth bass,
carp and catfish in the
concrete channel.
I wonder if they get bored.
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