For a hundred miles
    the fields have worn
           beards of ugly stubble
                     and night is falling
and you can’t find
    a lover, not on AM or FM,
           and the hand at the toll booth
                     wears a glove
so as not to touch you.
    You pay for yourself,
           then for the car behind you,
so someone pushing headlights
    through the heavy dark
           will feel luck
                     go off like a Roman candle,
so she’ll give a car length
    to the maniac who cuts her off,
and you, there in your lonely bubble,
    can think of each tail light,
           each anonymous fender
                     as a friend.