When the day broke through the hazy, Tennessee mountains
the ruffled forest swayed in the tattered breeze.
It was Whitman’s breath that turned the leaves.
What would the old man think of the interstates,roaring and bending through the peace and calm along with advertisement’s taller than trees.
How many tears would he shed if, through me,
He breathed the ghastly fumes of an aggravated semi?
Machines by the thousands. Daily. Striving to get from one place to the other in the shortest time possible
I wish he was hitchhiking now.
Tattered cloths and hat. A ruck sack hanging painfully down his shoulders.
His tired thumb extended, reaching for a ride.
Whitman, stopping to pick up discarded value meals and famous soda cans spread in the medians and ditches.
An occasional honk from nowhere. Whitman resting under a six-miles-till sign, sleeping under a six-miles-till sign.