Cars, trucks, semis, motorcycles run up and down 41. Some go fast. Faster than 65. Others stay in the right lane the whole trip. Never passing. Never taking a chance. They’re happy with where they are in life. Or, too nervous to make a change.
I can see the beasts out on the highway from my house. Diesels running fast. Never slowing down. Running through red lights at 41 and 10. Some slow down to fuel up at the truck stop right there. They stop and take a nap out back. Engines running. They keep warm.
They’re all going somewhere. Maybe down to Terre Haute. Others heading north to Chicago. I wish I was heading somewhere. Another city to try out. Maybe take 80 all the way out to San Francisco. Could go on old 66 down to St. Louis. Or, out to California. Traveling at night in California. Going through towns like Indio; the farming communities. Smells of citrus and alfalfa under a purple sky. I could go on 95 again. Make a run on the East coast. Stop in Philadelphia. Go on north to Portland, Maine. Knew a girl once who lived in Lancaster. That’s a bit off the path. She was a bit off the path.
She was a waitress at at bar. Used to run with bikers. Said she was a nice Jewish girl. Don’t let her fool ya. Could only make love to the music of Dr. John, or, Barry White. I prefer Coltrane myself. Yes, I prefer Coltrane.
I see the traffic on 41. Everyone going somewhere. Those days are over. They have been for awhile. Now I eat pizza from Sumava. No more New York slices. No more road trips. Fishing on the Kankakee. The river’s always rising.