A red dawn and Elvis dances
on the dash; I juggle
stations, speed past the green
of exit signs on this
torture haul to Rockhampton —
impossible capital of beef.
Eyes shriek with exhaustion
muscle & bone drum
one word over & over
north … north …
A leftover moon hangs low
as the radio catches Springsteen
that patron saint of the all-night
truckstop and working-class dream.
Barrel into Gladstone
where it’s petrol, take away
a piss and cold water on the face
before one final leg
youth burning
as the speedo flattens out —
a nowhere stretch of road
feeding the flames.
Love a good road poem and this one has the right feel about it – the ending is perfect!
Thanks Gabe… that drive has some wild memories for me, as I used to come down from Dysart (1100km) just for the weekend… crazier times!
Wow, and I thought Bundy to Brisbane was a trip!
Oh yeah, to even think of doing it now makes me go cold!
“A leftover moon hangs low
as the radio catches Springsteen
that patron saint of the all-night
truckstop and working-class dream.”
Oh what brilliant lines….they made my afternoon reading well worthwhile.
Wouldn’t be a road trip without Bruce!
I’m with Gabrielle, this one has all my favourites – driving, Elvis, all the blow through places on the drive north. My accelerator foot is itchy just reading it.
And I know how itchy that foot gets T! Glad you enjoyed this.
Makes me think of On the road. And makes me want to go on a road trip!
Thanks Lyndon! Lovely to hear from you mate and glad this made you want to hit the road.
O, i always wish i had a recorder while driving. I envy you to be able to catch it for writing later.
This one stems from the long, long drives of my early twenties when I was living 1100km from Brisbane and would think nothing of driving down and back in a weekend… wild, wild times!
Moods and images if a long road trip well captured, Graham.