The Road

Poem called The Road

Lazy heat rising,
waves as it kisses
the blacktop goodbye.
Crunchy dust unsettled
spinning little hello's
to the tips of my boots.
Cracked, broken, faded,
lines creeping through
concrete.
Aged and weary, like the
traveler who walks it.
The road is alive,
it's history for all to see,
as the sun begins to settle,
and the walker moves on.
The next town is a ways away.
Best to keep going, stepping,
moving.
Nothing left but long, skinny
shadows, dancing with the
dust.
As the sun dips below
the horizon of
the road.