Put the map down. Don’t bother to fold it,
That could take hours. Leave the keys, but not
In the ignition—this isn’t your blue-blooded
Father-in-law’s country club. Set them right
On the seat, a gift to the next poor fuck who
Will try to outpace his destiny. And don’t
Slam the Goddamn door, gently close it. No
Need to make a scene, not now. You passed
The point for kicking and screaming some miles
Back. The tank is half full; your fatigue is not
A factor: You ran out of road, that’s all this is.
Bobby Fuller sang “I guess my race is run,”
And he ended up dead from swallowing gasoline.
If you linger long enough you may see them
Come to dismantle the scenery; try to appreciate
The effort that was made for you. As they roll
Up the sod and wheel off the trees, give thanks
To whomever you think could have kept this up
For so long. It wasn’t easy. He/She/It has been
Merciful; funny that you just never realized.