Interstate 5 Neon Horses
Ben Hickman · Portland Oregon, 2026 · Prose Poem
i. My father told me Interstate 5 was built for a war that never came. The old meandering roads were too narrow, too soft, destined to be crushed into useless paste beneath fuel trucks and tank treadsIf some Trans-Pacific Colossus attempted setting foot on the harsh beaches of: YachatsTillamook Coos BayI remember him saying this as the darkness slipped past the windows.
Then my mother sat forward in her seat. A saccharine pink glow floated above the shoulder of the freeway."There!"Her face caught a pink reflection before I saw it myself.First one horse, then another. Statues of horses – outlines in neon hanging in the darkness. Not charging or rearing, but grazing, looking up, a mare bent toward a fawn.
Eugene to Portland, Portland to Eugene, to see Grandma, and Al.And then just Grandma.And then not at all.
ii. I grip black coffee, I steer my Accord southbound on Interstate 5 again.I’m twenty-six now – things arn’t working out.The valley flattens into darkness beyond the headlights.I glance at the shoulder. Toward the place where the horses should be to see only:Fence posts Winter fieldsFar away farm housesFor a moment I see the shape of a glow anyway, above the grass where memory insists it belongs. Then the headlights shift and there is nothing there at all.
More disappears on Interstate 5:The enormous roadside eagle advertising the foam services of a company The beer-bellied mascot of Thrill-Ville, frozen in triumph, dual American flags thrust high atop a 20 story pollOddly, the bland signage of roadside pornography stores remain.New exits appear.
iii. Now thirty nine, I travel south again.Now my daughter is somewhere in the darkness behind me.I murmur to my son, "is she asleep?"I see the ink of his seven year old form arch across the back seat to check, As outside his window the valley slides into darkness again.
Somewhere ahead is the place where the horses stood."Right up here, there used to be these horse sculptures, neon horse sculptures," I say."What kind of horses?" He asks."Just horses. Doing regular horse things."We drive another mile in silence."What happened to them?" He asks.I realize I don't know.The place approaches. I can feel it coming, the same way I once knew the horses were near before I could see them.I nod toward the darkness."That's where they were."
He peers out the window:Fence posts Winter fieldsFar away farm housesWe pass the place. Then, from the back seat he whispers, "She's asleep."And I remember the horses.