Shadows on the road grow long,
become shadows of themselves
within the fans of headlights
when the sun is gone. 

Moving west through some state,
right-angled to the new moon,
the concrete snakes through forest
like a lover heading for a mistress. 

Six weeks on the road with six to go.
He’s tired of sleeping in strange towns.
He lies in bed, looking at her picture,
the one she sent two nights ago. 

She is leaning against their headboard,
wearing a camisole with one strap
slipping off her shoulder. He dares
imagine boy shorts below the photo.   

The paisley cloth is a Rorschach to him.
He sees her breasts, one boldly bare,
the other peeking timidly through hair,
a country river flowing down it.