I’ve packed a bag, locked up my flat,
The open road is where it’s at.
The tank is full, my shoes are loose,
The wind laughs like an old caboose.
The glass is rolled down in each door,
My glove compartment, a snack drawer.
My maps are burned, my phone is fried,
A stranger stops me, thumbs a ride.
We motor for uncharted miles,
Exchanging stories, swapping smiles.
The skies are blue, the clouds drift slow,
Just where I’m headed, I don’t know.
Past sun lit diners dipped in dust,
A thousand road signs cracked with rust.
Up purple mountain majesties,
Bonfires catch a summer’s breeze.
Through canyons cloaked in cactuses,
Soft tunes —a songbird practices.
As winds wave warm in pinstripe pastures,
My heart’s a melting mess of raptures.
For all my cares have fled and gone,
My only thought: keep rolling on.
The sweet hum of the road does declare:
Why hurry to end up nowhere?
So when someday I chance to pass
A speckled meadow tall with grass,
I’ll toss the key out to my flat,
I think I’ll stay just where I’m at.
