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 pass by 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 just like the rest
except for the color of SUV parked
out front with their name painted black
on a white 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 even a glimpse
of Mammoth Road in my rear-view mirror.
