Winding around Hwy 61,
refreshing 32 degree winter morning,
scoping for eagles in trees,
illegally texting my son a question
about why he is sad,
instanteously running out of gas,
unable to get cell phone reception.
Hitch hiking along this scenic highway,
the first car drives by,
the second stops.
She says I look like a million bucks
can’t understand why the first car
I was returning from
paying a seatbelt ticket
didn’t fight it,
we exchange ticket stories for the duration
of the drive back to town.
Paying the fine late,
running out of gas,
not really leverging the power of the
classy grey haired energetic baby boomer woman shining in gold like the sun,
you pick me up,
tell me twice
I look like a million bucks.
That is an inside job.
My insides feel like I radiate
a million bucks just from
like the beautiful snow covered oaks,
ash, maples, and pines,
cathedral-like and magestic
in their virginity
along the side of the road.
it is time to pay homage
to the gifts all around me,
and I know the answer
before I even ask the question.