Hound me Down the Highway
The blackbirds write a warning of wings
Across the colored parchment western sky.
Clouds hide a hellish red sunset.
A southbound semi snarls and spits
pipes full of smoke:
As it pursues me and pulls even,
its windows look fierce
And big eyed like an African mask.
Then it passes me
making its tribal rattle.
Escaping the tug of truck draft,
I slow down behind a church van,
pregnant with parishioners.
The iridescent letters on the back door
glow "God is so good."
Into the dusk-ending night,
the van drives without headlights,
like any act of faith.
Finally, I pass the church van
without headlights. I look back
and the van has disappeared:
In its place are the last images of the day:
The script of blackbirds,
the African mask of semis,
and the faithful church van reappear,
until an one-eyed car
sneaks into my rear view mirror.
Looking eye-patched
and sinister in the darkness,
it hounds me down the highway.
Steve Hein
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