I hope I’ve had enough
to pass out.
Here’s my chance,
to be certain,
one more drink.
No more for you.
Come on! You made last call.
I’ll call you a cab.
The road is an addiction,
Hot asphalt and dusty billows.
Driving along a broken line
To an unfamiliar destination,
No pins, no maps required.
The scenery changes with every mile,
The weather bright, cloudy, and stormy,
Ever changing like your mental state,
Your mind wandering to and fro,
Where you’ve been, where you’re going.
In the isolation of a four door vehicle
Trapped, yet protected, with a seat belt,
Secure in knowing the road is open,
Gripping your tires, your imagination,
Taking you on a trip, without tripping.
Robert Stanhope started creative writing during his Junior year of high school. In his twenties, he became a motorsports journalist and was published in a number of local, regional, and national trade publications. Now in his early 40s, Bob has returned to creatively writing, including embarking on his first novel, The Last Lie.