Coldwater Canyon

I pull out a crinkled map
Out of my back pocket,
Once pristine,
Folded neatly and clean
Eight states back with a changed state of mind.

You stop the car on the dime
and walk into the shop:
Candy,
Smokes,
and a six-pack of chalk.
You see through the sky
And walk down the line,
To outline my body
Just seven miles back.
The asphalt is dirty,
The white line is dashed,
Discrepancies were found from my credit to cash.

But I never bothered to keep the receipts
Purposely lost in the cracks of seats.

There are cities hidden in creases of the map
And the highway lines thin as the melt in my lap.
I can only drive besides telephone lines
Because all the world's liars write directional signs.
And we were driving so fast, but not going far
Since we skipped the fuel tank and poured gas on the car.