Psalm of the Traveler

Give thanks to Dwight D. Eisenhower,

god of the interstate,

creator of black stone veins to cross a country

too big to be captured.

Bless yourself with motor oil,

the sign of a shield on your forehead.

Our acolytes wear dark blue windbreakers and red ties,

wool caps to keep their ears from freezing in the cold,

have muscles in their shoulders that strain

to send our baggage across the counties--

even the pieces you wish could stay behind.

(You cannot escape your heart’s past).

Our clergy are tired and dirty,

covered in cement and exhaust, working

in the glow of floodlights. They genuflect to earthmovers,

flash by our windows in a glow of hunters’ orange and hardhats,

risk their lives

to put us in motion, another hundred miles closer

to happiness.

Our temples are hurtling down highways faster than the beating of our hearts

(but not by much)

and we sit in accepted silence with travelers

who are stuck with us in the asphalt arteries

like the bluish veins on the back of a lover’s hand

while someone else makes their fist clench in pleasure.

We live outside state lines,

the titles on our IDs only serving to proclaim how far we’ve traveled

to meet our heart’s home.

We worship in late-night gas stations,

baptize ourselves with ice-cold water from the bathroom sinks,

let our cigarette smoke

drift to the sky like incense.

Send prayers to Saint Anthony,

patron of lost things.

Thank Mister Eisenhower, who somehow knew

one day we would need pathways

to other people’s hearts.