i’d like to hit the road,
and i’d just like to go
out into the roads of America,
where i could watch it all roll by
from the back of a pickup truck
or the passenger seat of a car,
picked up by whomever,
whenever,
wherever,
so long as i just go,
exploring,
traveling,
leaving
with only a bag and a whistle,
and perhaps a stick or two,
and a can of beans at night,
shared with a good friend,
met perhaps by chance
but still a friend for the night.

but there’s just one hitch in my hike,
that no one would pick me up,
but would instead see my lack
of matted facial hair,
or of straggly hair, blowing in the wind,
and of features made hard by the sun;
and i would be given just a passing thought
that i must be a serial killer,
running away from trouble back home.