The Hitchhiker
Standing on a wide bend of US forty,
arm stretched and thumb pointing to the sun,
your wits undone.
You’re craving a quiet relaxing ride,
free from all the small talk of politics, sports,
and weather reports.
Cacti seem to grow before your eyes;
your feet burn like irons in blistering torment,
branding the pavement.
Hitchhiking was easier in the sixties.
Riders were sought after, a congenial variety
from normal society.
Forty years later marks a big change.
Most hitchers, no longer the traveler’s friend,
languish at the bend.
You know the future offers no refuge;
only a lonely trucker crisscrossing the nation,
itching for conversation.
~ Ken Reetz