The American West
by: Michael E. Quigley

He's driving a dirty, old, white pickup truck
She sits right next to him on the bench seat
There's a Coke can on the dashboard
And the cable from the CB whip antenna snakes into the cab through the open window.
He one-hands the wheel
His other hand on her knee--
reassuring, protecting, hoping, expecting
Her hair's tied back, held by a ribbon.
His grey t-shirt; her denim jacket.
There is dirt and hay in the bed, and bits of tie-down twine still around the bumper.
They're young; in love. He brakes as we enter town.

Her shiny new black Jetta has LEDs for taillights and a vanity tag.
She sits alone in a contoured bucket seat. Her air is conditioned.
One hand on her cellphone, one hand between wheel and stick
Gold bangles tie her wrists.
Her hair’s wild, eyes lined, top sleeveless, skin tanned,
There's a dreamcatcher and a cross hanging from her rearview mirror.
She steps on it as we leave town.

I'm alone,
Steadily speeding.
I have a long way to go.
The windshield's cracked and bug-splattered.
The CD volume high to get over the hum of the road and the wind.
Both hands on the wheel, I'm thinking of heroes, history, the road, the land.
Far from frontiers, and 20 miles north, the road is closed at the Border Patrol checkpoint.
A young man in a pressed uniform, not from here, stands in the road
One hand on his gun, the other motioning me to stop.
He looks in my back seat, makes a judgment, tells me to drive safely.

A mockingbird lands on a strand of barbed wire.
Black-and-white triangle tail balancing above a stand of white-green prickly poppy.

I go. Accelerating into the night on a long, straight stretch of road.
The sun sets in the West.
Mountains silhouetted on a pink-purple-indigo sky.
Clouds beyond.

We're in a drought.
There's a storm coming.

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Copyright, Michael E. Quigley; contact the author for more information.