On or before a flat, the horizon had summoned sleek Opportunity to take any bus being maintained before Greyhound in Cincinnati gives through and up. Just when Ohio gets their fleetworthy shit together since, she extends, unbuttons herself aislewise from memory alone of those ridings.

In retrospect, it is parental-like advice offered about shaving with cold water that turns germane in a few on-board shudders. Minus your travel kit stuffed with miniature oatmeal soap, hotel toothbrushes shrink-wrapped, she opens something else of hers. The niceties she has does for—then what luxury hits grooved pavement while locked inside a would-be water closet, dropping her least favorite aunt’s compact down the blue chute, cabin lights fading out muddy, yet strop-sharp? This land is our window for territory, some tender brochure goes on. And red-eyes cramped may come in handy for the unscheduled pull-over when, in the next seat, she refuses getting up a smile at coach fare.

To more immediate mind: advancement—north or south—towards spending a lifetime from the nearest authority.

And as rivers loom in sight, she whispers, they beckon in sleep—

She almost adds, Though drivers don’t take a piss slumped over the steering wheel so normal.

drift

forrest roth