Most Likely You Go Your Way

I blink,
painful discomfort
caused by sitting too close
to the highway,
white lines
drowning
in an onyx sea.
We drive,
windows open,
cigarette dangling from his lips,
unlit.
The black Camaro,
undetectable shadow
on route 66.
Only Dylan,
blasting from our speakers,
gives us away.
Photographs on the dashboard
stained with coffee,
credit cards maxed out.
We’re discovering America;
documenting it for posterity.