Shift into drive. North on 75:
the same asphalt throat
that swallowed your ancestor’s Ford
when the army coughed him out in ’42.

Back then, the rearview held
black lung and blackberry slopes;
now, it’s a dispensary billboard—
27 MILES—LEGAL RELIEF
glowing like a false moon.
You count exit signs like lotto numbers:
Toledo. Monroe.

Two parallel roads. One scar.

The state wants your bones cataloged
before it grants you anything.
Same as your ancestor’s:
crossing state lines to sell their hands
to another assembly line—

Show your papers, prove your need
while the old migration hums beneath your wheels.

At the counter, they swipe your ID—
Disabled? the budtender nods,
You get 10% off.
You almost laugh. And fill your cart.

Outside, crows heckle
from a power line.
They don’t know.
You grip the wheel.
Feel the old road
swallows your tires like swallowed
hope, this pilgrimage of fractures—