The Front Tire Wobbles

by Cory Zimmerman

The front tire wobbles.

Across the Badlands. Thunder and hail. A beer in Wall Drug. By the Juke Box I sit. Next day, Wyoming. Meet an Italian named Case. At a bar by the lake. Love Yellowstone Whiskey.

Sleep with man-eating grizzlies. And Zen poetry. A buffalo hit by a coup. Onyx black eye. Blood pooling. Moon glistening. I talk of freedom. The open road ahead. Calling my name. Be wild and free. Head west out the gap. All night. Idaho. We bathe in the desert. Nevada sun. Hot air and cool breeze. And the essence of flying. And love and love.

We stop in Reno. We sit by the river. We sit with the homeless. On the 4th of July. We pass the bottle. Make our way around Tahoe. Down the slope to San Fran. Wear flowers in our hair. We walk the Haight. Wonder where’s Ashbury? Shopping carts and addicts. Needles in the street. Flowers long wilted.

Down the coast to Big Sur. Get high by the sun. Campfire burns. Down the cliff waves crashing. Lost minds in the stars. Lost stars in her eyes. Car sick on route one. To the city of lost angels. Walk the Walk of the Stars.

Barefoot for Tijuana. Meet a hooker from Peoria. Red light and green beer. The bar always midnight. The music always loud. The speakers always blown. A chubby girl on a pole. Thick thighs on brass. She smuggles drugs. Been on 60 minutes. Has 60 kids. 60 Orphans. Tracks in her arm. Luke-warm Tecate.

East along the border. Cochise. Peyote. Sleep by the tracks. Sandstorm in Lordsburg. A monsoon to Roswell. Down to El Paso. A mission outside Juarez. Beautiful whitewash. Mexican sky. Patrol strips my car. Knife to the seats. They find nothing.

Four days in Texas. Fried food in small towns. Walls covered in photos. Varsity blues. Y’all’s and y’all’s folk. Same last names. A cop sees us fucking. We cross the white line. The plate is obstructed. A knock on the window. We know the routine. Hands on the wheel. We mess with Texas. Don’t mess with Texas.

A ferry from Galveston. The coast of Louisiana. Bayou and gators. Eggs and toast in New Orleans. No time for Jazz. By way of Ol' Miss. Chicago. Billy Goat. Cheeseburger. Cheeseburger. Pepsi. No Coke.

Cross Indiana. Ohio. Etc. Lincoln lies in his tomb. We lay in the grass. On to Baltimore harbor. Ice cream for breakfast. A nice hike in the woods. A tick on the ankle. A tear in my eye. Goodbyes forever.

Head up to Maine. Sailor’s pub. Bar Harbor. Sit in the fog. I sit all alone. Drink beer off the tap. I miss her so. Our adventure is over. I dream of the future. But the fog is too dense. I awake in deep water. The forest is lush. Coast of Desert Island. Peculiar lives of writers. Mysterious fog persists.

Hit the mainland for Bangor. Meet a hobo by the tracks. Smoke salvia joints. See it? I do. Go into the forest. It is where I belong. It is where I see her. She sits in the dirt. By a smoldering log. Large almond eyes. Too large for her head. She smirks. And I grin.

Young naked nymphs. Dance about with a flute. I pay no attention. Though attention they seek. She says her name. Her name is Brit. Says she’s Italian. We lay around in the sticks. Eat dahl and smoke weed. I read a quote by Jack. What’s your favorite color? Mine is green. Hers I forget. We bathe in the lake. Under Orion.

A rainbow. A missing tooth. Insists she’s his gal. Gives her a massage. I’m sick of his shit. I talk of freedom. And we hit the road. Head for the city. Back where I belong. Back in the rearview. The rainbow hugs a tree. He falls to his knees. And I never look back.

The bright city ahead. Shines in our eyes. I put my arm around her. She takes a deep drag. Far off gaze. Skyline ahead. The wind sucks the smoke. We both know this road. The road to squander. And squander we do. We know this routine. Wayward. Adrift. We know our privilege. Our bliss to piss. Our ignorance. Our freedom. Our time. Together. Our time, alone in our time.

The front tire wobbles.