Interstate Horses
Ben Hickman · Portland Oregon, 2025 · Sonnet
I. When war-cracked hands poured concrete through the hills,
and stiffened up the country’s western spine,
they meant to move what panic later wills—
steel caravans in disciplined design.
Through Siskiyou blue dark and pasture land
the freeway cut, a promise poured in gray,
so Europe, Asia, no advancing hand
could set a track or take this ground away.
and stiffened up the country’s western spine,
they meant to move what panic later wills—
steel caravans in disciplined design.
Through Siskiyou blue dark and pasture land
the freeway cut, a promise poured in gray,
so Europe, Asia, no advancing hand
could set a track or take this ground away.
II. And there I was, a boy in the back seat,
while under us the low republic hummed;
beside the lanes, in pink electric heat,
the neon horses quietly became.
They grazed, they watched, they bent toward a small fawn—
now they are gone, and I drive on, drive on.
while under us the low republic hummed;
beside the lanes, in pink electric heat,
the neon horses quietly became.
They grazed, they watched, they bent toward a small fawn—
now they are gone, and I drive on, drive on.