Of the road

GPS speaks a foreign language.

Syllables fall like rain against the windshield.

Worn out wipers smear the rhythm of words.

Its unseen voice becomes your only companion

and somehow convinces you

your destination is just over the horizon.

But the highway has no signposts,

and your dog-eared map is out-of-date.

Your tires try to remember the way.

Trees applaud every wrong turn.

No mile marker exit signs forecast the future

Fuel gauge light flashes orange.

Each mile feels borrowed.

A burnt coffee diner appears in the shimmer of heat.

You step out of your car and push open the diner door.

A waitress asks, “Can I help you?”

You smile back and tell her

you’re looking for a house with its porch light on

and someone waiting at the door to welcome you home.

She hands you black coffee in a to-go cup

and says, “It’s just over the horizon.”

You believe her, climb back in your car and leave.

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