Blending in is like that one time you got stuck on an exit ramp in Jalapa, South Carolina

and as the radio peeters out

all you can do is look for constellations through the sunroof.

That one could be the big dipper and Is it still Leo season? You watch cars

race into highway darkness and when one finally drives by,

you stare at your reflection in the tinted window.

You flash before your eyes

and by the time you remember to check on the stars, they’re shrouded

in clouds. Everyone needs some time to themselves—you heard that somewhere.

Everyone needs to feel hidden. Later, a state trooper picks you up

and Darius Rucker and G-Eazy trade places

on his radio. He hums and you hear him.

Ahead, a gas station. You hear him. Ahead, an accident—hear him. Ahead,

a man on the ground. He can’t move

and a woman brings him water, wading

through thousands of thawing chicken legs. They spill

from the crumpled freezer truck. They glitter in siren light.

Scatter spectacle across the highway. Like this night,

they are endless. The smell alone

begs for anonymity and still midnight drivers

slow-pass. The state trooper who picked you up

gave you a fake name,

he begs too. Confiscated IDs

line the ceiling of his car, pinned up like stars.

---

This poem was written after my friend and I ended up on the side of the road for six hours in the middle of nowhere, South Carolina. We chose to blame it on the road-trip playlist I’d made in preparation for the 8 hour drive, a playlist so good we forgot to stop for gas.