I-80

 

He’d gotten as far as Emigrant Gap,

pulling off onto a scenic outlook

beside the pine and granite bowl of Lake Putt—

not as a tourist taking in the view,

nor was it an empty tank—before turning back.

Only, he thought, it’d be getting dark soon,

a vague notion of appropriate time,

even if what first compelled him was the desire

to drive west till nothing was familiar,

to the last pier into the Pacific.

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