If you’re walking on 40 towards Oklahoma, a lot goes on in your mind. Semis going past you, cars with families heading to San Diego, or maybe Vegas, Dallas, or a vacation at the Grand Canyon, whiz by; a kid in the back seat waves.
And then there’s these old pickup trucks hauling Mexicans off to ranches, farm hands sitting in an old rusted back end of a Dodge Ram, or Ford 150. Men throwing brown sacks out off the sides of the highway; remember that commercial where the Indian chief would cry? Litter everywhere. Pop cans and cigarette butts dot the hills leading off into the flat lands. Deer run and bobcats chase after cardboard boxes that held Big Macs, Quarter Pounders, Chicken Mcnuggets. Maybe a little left; a scraping of grease.
In the distance there are guns being fired at antelope, bucks, some trying to kill a coyote as the sun goes down and the blackness covers the earth. And it’s just you out there walking. The mind wanders. Thinking ’bout a family you left behind. The last good meal you had. What do clean clothes feel like? You’re just hoping. Hoping a ride comes along soon.