Interstate 77

By Johnathan McCauley


I fell asleep

at the wheel

once, on my

way north to Pittsburgh.

Easily lulled

into dreams

by and of

the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Car horns blared from the

other lane

along with

sounds of metal

grinding against rock

my chest thrown

and yanked back

by the seat belt.

One hundred foot drop.

I plunged toward

the rocky

Whitestick Creek bed.

Yelling up nothing.

Clenching hands.