worldwide vacancies, like spaces in between the world’s ears,

a line of demarcation from what makes sense down south to what makes monsters out of mountains;

down the horizon of the highway,

dead center with a broken yellow stripe up its back, like the road itself is the coward—

no wonder it’s always walked on, run over,

and I’ll sit there, self-aware in the breakdown line without a trace of irony,

my thumb out and a beer in hand,

waiting for the next overachiever to give me a ride.