White Line Witch

Anthony Fedanzo

Late night sad talk radio sticks
to seatbacks and floor mats,
a couple of loose cans tap on the mind
like the white line rattle.
Wheels drift again. Southwest AM
moves with a thundercloud, runs off into Oklahoma
skips back some cowboy and fades.
Strapped in the rig where she hangs out
he rolls to fill the big empty,
the white line witch, she hums his name.
Some day he's going to do it,
drive on over the line. Not tonight,
not with stations jumping all by their lonesome
at every country road, miles by minutes
dropping texican, mexican, christers,
and rock all down from the sky
without a single finger put to the dial.
Tonight is not the night;
still it's coming,
maybe when it rains enough for wipers
to horse tail the windows
and stations drift to Four Corners quiet,
it'll just sort of happen, natural like.

Anthony Fedanzo