George Strait sings about making Amarillo by mornin’
Me, I need to get there by supper
Then on to Dalhart by summer sundown
Safe at the Nursanickel Inn before stars stir in the sky.

We leave Texarkana at dawn with Mother’s brown bag picnic
To unpack at an isolated rest area somewhere around Wichita Falls
And eat on some wind-whipped concrete picnic table
Speckled with bird droppings, watermelon seeds, lovers’ graffiti, and
Marching ants.

Mile after monotonous mile of rutted two-lane Highway 287 West
Weaving along the yellow stripes and orange cones dividing the shimmering asphalt
Traveled only by me, bouncing U-hauls, and whooshing trucks
Carrying droopy chickens, Wal-Mart groceries, jaggedly hewn logs and
Old furniture.

Mile after monotonous mile of rutted, two-lane Highway 287 West
The creeping hours tallied by one-traffic light towns
With names beginning with C--
Clarksville, Chillicothe, Clarendon, Childress, Channing, Clayton.

Mile after monotonous mile of rutted, two-lane Highway 287 West
The flattening landscape dotted with familiar signs of small-town life
Malodorous feed lots, solitary grain silos, proud high school marquees,
Red and white Dairy Queens and listless oil rigs.

Towering pine masts with floating branches and graceful mimosa trees praise
the smoky pink dawn, but by mid-morning shrink into
Witch finger shadows of gnarled thirsty mesquite and lackluster live oaks
Conjuring sprites up from the dusty olive thistles and sagebrush.

Matted windblown clumps of yellow-ochre pampas grass salute
The blazing flag of sun throughout the afternoon until finally
Stiff, prickly tumbleweeds and cracked puzzles of red dirt
Anchor a brilliant blue sky and mighty sailing clouds.

Mile after monotonous mile of rutted, two-lane Highway 287 West
On and on into the blistering beating down sun
Farther and farther into the endless blue sky day
Dreaming of the mountains we’ll see tomorrow.