The Highway

HEAVEN DOES NOT EXIST, but there is a Hell, and I am in it, on it—The Highway, the non-stop traveling to a destination that never arrives, the terribly greasy fare of the Stuckey’s dotting the off-ramps every fifty miles, and although demons do not cavort with pitchforks in geothermal caverns spitting flames, the heat oppresses, the air conditioner inoperative, summer always—global warming complete; must get there today, the impetus seems implanted, the kids tire, the wife complains, the car smokes—vacation sucks, the regimentation, the time line: and miles to go before I sleep, miles and miles and miles.