“Mile Markers”

My mother stands 
     by the side of the road with her thumb out
while I sit on a green suitcase beneath a shade tree
     a few feet from the shoulder.
Inside my case a marionette I named Pepe’, 
     unwashed jeans, and a worn copy of The Lion,
the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Missing 
     are my security 
blanket and a pair of tennis shoes
     left by mistake on the floorboard 
of our last ride. We are on a highway
     somewhere between Albuquerque 
and D.C., maybe the Midwest,
     maybe even Kansas, I don’t know
because the significance
     of highway numbers
is lost on me. I pout because of the blanket
     that’s lost to that underwater world between sleep 
and wakefulness and the time between gears
     and asphalt. Pout because my Paper Moon dream
is folded tight within a Samsonite suitcase
	where it cannot shine.