Hobble Creek Review
| Troy Urquhart |
US 27
It's eighty miles an hour or nothing
up highway twenty-seven in the dark.
Robert's singing on the stereo,
and we're late in getting home.
I'm watching little white dashes
disappear behind us in the night,
little hyphens that connect this road
to everywhere we're going.
I try counting them, not in ones or twos but tens and dozens,
and think for a moment about just parking
there on the side of the highway.
We could lay the seats back and sleep until three a.m.
when we'd wake, rub the sleep from our grainy eyes,
sip the cold, stale coffee we bought at a gas station a hundred miles ago
and drive.
It's eighty miles an hour or nothing
up highway twenty-seven in the dark.
Robert's singing on the stereo,
and we're late in getting home.
I'm watching little white dashes
disappear behind us in the night,
little hyphens that connect this road
to everywhere we're going.
I try counting them, not in ones or twos but tens and dozens,
and think for a moment about just parking
there on the side of the highway.
We could lay the seats back and sleep until three a.m.
when we'd wake, rub the sleep from our grainy eyes,
sip the cold, stale coffee we bought at a gas station a hundred miles ago
and drive.
Troy Urquhart lives in a small town in central Florida and teaches writing
and American literature courses at an independent international boarding
school. His work has recently appeared in journals including
Twentieth-Century Literature, Utah English Journal, and Willows Wept Review.
His chapbook Springtime Sea Bathing will appear later this year from Carl
Annarummo's small press, The Greying Ghost.
and American literature courses at an independent international boarding
school. His work has recently appeared in journals including
Twentieth-Century Literature, Utah English Journal, and Willows Wept Review.
His chapbook Springtime Sea Bathing will appear later this year from Carl
Annarummo's small press, The Greying Ghost.
| Home / About / Masthead / Submissions / Contact / Current Issue / News / Archives |
