I see you when I stand at the door.
I see you cruising the skyline

I count down the lightning flashes
You are five miles away.

I watch you swerve toward the mountain.
I smell moisture molecules in the air.

You stomp down the highway, shouting and laughing.
You stalk across the desert, leaving wet stains.

Walk to me, I say, walk to me and lift me
Carry me south past the razor wire

to hide in the green tangle of tomorrow
and fight for balance on shaky ground.

The countertops are sparkling, little pitchers
brim-full with creamer and syrup. Waitresses
in snow-white aprons hover, beckoning, Come in!
Come in! Don't pass us by! Try a slice of pie as wide
as the Jordan, while you quench your rigs with diesel,
for your fuel lines are dry. Come in, all you
who are freighted with hard-shifted loads:
your chicken parts, hay bales, inflammable liquids.
For the highway is fractious, your air brakes
a wheeze and a prayer, your tie rods and drive shaft
are smoking, let them cool and be comforted.
Allow us to bless your manifests, anoint your soul
with fresh caffeine. Yea, surely you will avail
yourselves of our restrooms, faithfully sanitized
on the hour. You have driven well. 

--sign on I-84, Pennsylvania