David Estringel

down the bermuda highway

thumbin’ my way down the Bermuda Highway, chip on my shoulder, grave dirt on my shoes. sun’s gone n gone. ne’r to be found—neither hide nor hair—‘hind burdensome clouds that bruise god’s baby blue. clouds black like tar, black like pitch. fire-crested seams holding day’s woeful tapestry—tender, ephemeral like blazin’ cigarette drags from god’s hot cherry mouth. but m’eyes stay fixed yonder past vaporous heat of I95 and the gravity of Texas noon, where roadkill feeds asphalt and wheels, and tumbleweeds embark ‘pon their journeys to nowhere. hey, buddy, can I hitch a ride?

heat sticks heavy like a tick, like oil. slip slip slide and awaaay. so heavy it’s hard to      b   r   e   a   t   h   e (just ‘bout, but i do). sweat’s salty streams sting my eyes, vision turns green, hazy like dreams o’ yesterday n yesterday n yesterday. but i walk on, wander-weary, future bleary, highway hot, burnin’ souls, burnin’ time.

black car emerges from liquid air, stops, and trails me like a lonesome shade. 

“goin’ my way?” he asks from cracked, tinted glass.

“you tell me,” i return.

door opens. i step in, into black—black ice shadow. he just smiles, n we drive. dark eyes. dark skin. black like tar. black like pitch. fingers snappin’, ra-ta-ta-tappin’ the steering wheel to the tune of a silent dirge.

death in the driver’s seat, suitcase in the back wantin’ for a soul, i miss the fire under my feet n the hazy days of home n yesterday n yesterday n yesterday…