Love Letter on a Late Night Bus

a poem by Allie schultz

On every wheel-turned inch, I ask
what I can give the roads before
they leave me. Into the gravel past
my back, I see enough. So I implore,
what can I give the roads before
they claim it for themselves?
My back? Is that enough? I implore
these questions into the diesel wells.
They claim it for themselves:
my whole movement, my curiosity,
these questions in the diesel wells—
but it is nothing to the roads. You see,
my whole movement, my curiosity
wrapped in metal packaging,
is nothing to the roads. You see
this red earth and its living things
wrapped in metal packaging
glint under the sun, and know the roads own
this red earth and its living things
entirely. All that I have is just a loan
glinting under the sun and I know the roads own
most of that too. Even what I breathe
entirely, all that I have, is just a loan
from the wind the road already receives.
Most of that too (even what I breathe)
will never inspire the highway—
from the wind, the roads already receives
the scraps—tire skins, an empty cup, a “someday”
that will never inspire the highway.
So on every wheel-turned inch, I ask
to take the scraps—that tire skin, empty cup, and “someday”—
before they leave with me into the gravel past.