Exit 9
Marisol VegaI take the exit marked nothing,the one with a number no one bothers to remember,because the road doesn't care where I'm going,it only keeps opening.
Three in the morning, the gas station sits therelit up like it's waiting for someone in particular.I buy a coffee I know I won't finishand fold the map wrong on purpose,so the creases don't match anybody's route.
A deer stands at the shoulder,not running, not grazing,just deciding.I ease off the gas. I understand her completely.
I am not lost. I know exactly where I am:forty-one miles from a town I invented,pointed at a horizonthat keeps selling itself a little furtherevery time I get close.
Somewhere behind me, a bedstill holds the shape I left in it.Somewhere ahead, a gas stationI haven't picked yet.
I keep my foot steady on the pedallike the going is the arriving,like enough miles might finallyadd up to somewhere.