I imagine every town has that road
you cruise with your best friend,
the tunes cranked loud on the radio
heading to no-place in particular
as telephone poles fly past your open
window mile after mile after mile,
with no other cars or kids or cows
visible for long stretches at a time.
For us it was Mammoth Road
long before developers cut down trees
and planted houses like corn in neat
even rows, each one identical
except for color scheme and SUV
out front, their name painted black
on a mailbox by the road. But back
in the day it was ours as we drove
and talked for hours on end about bands
or girls or plans for after high school
while the songs kept rolling along —
only now he’s gone, and I’ve traveled
too far from home to catch a glimpse
of Mammoth Road in my rear-view mirror.
