She turns left in a beat up jalopy,
she prefers not to be known as a classic
car driver, her kiss Volvo-safe.

By the time she reaches Kansas,
having refilled her tank ten times,
and finished every audiobook she owns,

her hair is wind tangled, her back seat
full of fruit stand spoils, of cherry wine
bought from someone trying to make rent.

She makes the map up as she goes,
she erases the bowed lines at the beginning of songs,
always keeping a weather eye out for hitchhikers

rusted with their thumb towards the road,
with straw jutting from cuffs. She brights dark lanes
to dodge a lion with a death wish and a dream.

Sarah Ann Winn