I wonder where 
The directions went;

They must have 
Flown the coup 
on the drive along
this ordinary 
Freeway:

A familiar trespasser
With less will than
The saintly brush
which paints the
Countryside
A withering green
And thrives
On sickly rain 
and roadside trash.

No turnouts.
No off-ramps.
No chance
To make out 
what lies
                                                        Beyond the bend.

—No choice
But to see it through.

Up ahead I see a 
White trim sign 
that reads 
“Truth or Consequences”:
A town
I thought
I had long since
passed.

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