Just passed Asylum Street.
On the shoulder, a discarded sneaker left standing.
Farther down the road, another sneaker on its side.
Where are the feet? I dare not ask.
Strange roadside happenstance up ahead.
Minimum security prison on the left. Prisoners trapped in gray jumpsuits jogging in line across a yard, or not. It’s more like concrete grass. Prisoners like concrete, especially the shoes.
In the side view mirror, barbed wire fades into glass.
We continue past moo moo cows and cornfields, past boonie towns and weathered barns. On the road to infinite asphalt sky. Zero. Nothing, but gray ribbons twisting in the wind.
Luckily, GPS Gladys is our gal. Her voice, calm and reassuring.
“Continue along route 666 for another mile,” she says.
Close to our destination we are told.
A sign confirms it. “Cheer up your lawn with manure.” It says. I say, “WTF?” We’re heading toward Crazy 8 Campus, stuck in mud beneath morphine sky.
“You’ll be taking a right in one mile,” pipes Gladys.
In exactly a mile, we turn onto Crazy 8 Road behind a slow moving Honda, with a bumper sticker on the back that brags, “You just got passed by a girl.”
We pass the Honda. A guy is at the wheel.
“Destination on the left in 500 feet.”
She takes a nap.
We take a seat in Crazy 8 hall.
Taken any road trips lately?