Highway 50

Heat waves shimmer on the horizon. Warmth radiates
from the blackened tar on Highway 50.
The late afternoon sun paints an orange glow as it fades
into a distant land, and
shadows from the mesquite slowly lengthen across the desert floor.
The air is heavy, weighing on him like a burden.

Shoulders slumped, head down, he trudges onward,
feet grating across the loose gravel on the side of the highway.
His sleeves are half rolled and his coat
flung over his shoulder. Sweat soaks
his shirt under his armpits and on
his back and chest. He wipes the sweat glistening
on his forehead.

Five miles of walking seem like thirty.
No town is in site, no car seen.
How he found himself stranded in the middle
of nowhere, is a mystery to him, but part of life.

Why did I leave? he wonders. He knows
he had to. It is the only answer, and always will be. Yet
still he feels lost at times,
and lonely.
If only for some company, someone to share the adventure.

But who in their right mind would want to follow me now?
He asks, laughing to himself enjoying for the moment,
the humor of situation—no money, no car, no plan.

It’s a wonder he made it this far.
His car was old, too old really for a trip such as this:
fading paint, bleached by the sun. Rust, eating it away
like a leprous disease—
the tail pipe already half gone. The doors
and the steering wheel squeak,
complaining of automotive arthritis.
It clanked and groaned and sputtered for thousands of miles
and not a few years,
finally coming to it’s dusty grave
on the side of a highway.
She was good to him while she lasted.

A breeze of any kind would be welcome,
but none comes. Just the sparrows and cicadas,
the heat and sweat. He stops
for a rest. Sitting down on the gravel, he thinks about water—
water he does not have.

He repeats the question, Why did I leave?
But he cannot relive the past.
And the journey must still be
completed.

Where he is going remains a mystery.
Some unseen force, or person, is deliberately guiding him.
And as a restless believer he follows, searching
for something—
a home, a sense of meaning, of purpose… a hope.
But he may never find a home, not in this world anyway.
So he sets his mind on another.

Must keep walking he mutters
to himself through lips crusted dry from lack of
siliva. Slowly he moves on

toward a noise. He squints his eyes now, in the heat,
just to see what lies ahead.
In the distance, appearing out of the mirage of uncertainty, the first
car he’s seen all day.
It is a sight he has grown to appreciate.
He stops to watch it approach,
heading in another direction—a convertible, with top down.

The driver, young, beautiful and care free,
black hair blowing in the wind, white sleeveless shirt
stretched tight over her chest,
smiles, waving a strong, but delicate hand.
He waves back, smiling for the first time in a while.

Dust from the wind blows into his eyes as she
disappears into her own adventure.
Rubbing the dirt
from his eyes,
He continues walking, faithfully,
as the twilight fades into the western night.
And the cool breeze of the desert wind whispers...