Analysis of Nevada

An all-but-empty Interstate stretches
straight, streaking horizon to horizon:
it is a ribbon with no bow, wrapping
northern Nevada. The eye fixes
on absent fences, looks for limits,
scans scenery overwhelmed by sky.
I cock my thumb to beg a ride;
a tear forms at the corner of my eye.
"Damn wind!"
I mutter, half believing the lie.
A dusty pickup rolls toward me
then accelerates, leaves me staring.
It dwindles into distance. -- "OK!",
I snarl -- I kick a rock, pick up my pack
and start to walk, left thumb poked
out to nothing. Someone will stop.
Two cars speed by; I wave to them.
My belly rumbles and I count
the steps I take. My wet eyes ache.
Someone will stop. Or won't.