The Blue Ridge comes into view, shy on cloudy days, obscured by fog and white noise, trucks barreling south on the highway. They think they own 81, and the dreams inspired between billboards, dented railings, and rest stop signs are all on loan from the white-walled phantoms that make tarmac wail. When I pass one, I look into the rearview, salute the turnpike king, the one that came before me, and the one who will ride in my calvary as I speed toward the place sorrow can't follow: white line fever, hypnosis, the dead zone. On the blue highway I'm never alone.
©2023 | K.F. Hartless
Artwork: Keith Kimmel (known as the art of kEith)





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