Speeding down a two-way highway
the sun is setting,
and I’m staring at the pinks and oranges on the horizon
slowly starting to fade in my rearview mirror.
Bob Dylan asks me How does it feel to be on your own?
I see the rising moon in front of me.
I start to describe it to myself as being rust-colored,
but I think, That’s incredibly cliché.
It’s the color of a watered down scotch,
abandoned for the night on a table on the back porch.
The moon keeps me company
as I glide over hills and around curves.
It’s sloshing along beside me,
behind power lines on whichever side of the road it chooses.
I see an abandoned grain factory down the road.
I slow as I pass it,
admiring it’s worn out beauty.
Three dilapidating grain silos stand guard
in front of the long forgotten about building.
I toy with the idea of exploring the factory
but Bob Dylan increases his tempo,
reminding me to Please her, please him, buy gifts.
My foot sinks deeper to the floor with my gas peddle.