Somewhere on the Side of Interstate 95
Liz Miller
There are oranges by my bare feet,
and a North Carolina road map
discarded with my flip-flops.
As I watch the cars pass,
the sun and the breeze play
the perfect duet of hot and cold
against my skin, so I am content
to sit in the grass and let orange
sticky juices drip down my chin
and ooze across my fingers.
Picking idly at a hole in my jeans,
faded and stained from the strain
of carrying weeks worth of adventures
in their threads, I lose myself
in the quick succession of cars,
tiny universes unto themselves
each with their own set of passengers,
and each passenger with their own
story to tell, and I want to know
them all. But the windows pass
so quickly and there are too many
to count or remember, so that I
am overcome by the vastness of humanity
as it rushes past me at 85 mph.