Vanishing Hitchhiker

There’s still a highway
and more than enough land to traverse.
And cars of course.
Plus a whole lot of trucks.

But there is nobody at the side of the road
with their belongings on their back,
thumbs in the air.
So nobody’s stopping.
Unless, of course, they brake
to pick up a ghost or two.

The journey is there
as it has always been
but, whatever it promises,
no one’s taking the mileage up on it.

So, from town to town,
landscape to landscape,
there are no engrossing
conversations between strangers.
No life stories.
No ruminating on the freedom of the great outdoors.
No older driver who suddenly feels nostalgic
for the trip he wanted to but never took
when he was young.
No two voices singing along to the radio.

The highway still looks the part,
as does the country it crosses.

But the cars, the trucks,
they’re just traffic these days.
The people are strictly behind the wheel
or a familiar passenger.

There’s no inclination to travel rough.
There are less thumbs than there used to be.