Route 44 ripples in the dull sunlight, narrowing in a yellow-gray haze.
Silence stretches. A fifties gas station rusts, the shout for a fill-up a memory, even to the old man in the wheelchair who waves as cars pass.
Caverns of industry, decades apart, hollow citadels behind leaning fences warning no entry for no reason;
There is but dust and sand red from rust in the gears, the energy of it all, the screech, the groan of rhythmic pounding, the muscle and thump dead air in musty rooms, the shells of machines bird-drop spattered.
Brick store front downtowns cluster and fade, houses with blue paint wrapped in white fences huddle.
Route 44 ripples in wavering light, a straight gray strip from then to now and to a fading then again, widened and bent, curves leaning, running toward some misty finish like dreams now squashed by the wall of the Interstate that blasts the future past.