Backseat

By Zack Nelson-Lopiccolo

We’re driving down Highway 10
on our way to Laughlin, boats hitched
to each truck loaded down with camping
supplies, in a four AM caravan
slipping across the purple Mojave.

Every passenger is asleep, except
for me staring at stars that jump
on black mountains. I see a pair of objects
shadowed and flying close to the peaks.

I’m positive they’re UFO’s investigating
this dark stretch of asphalt laying
in the desert like a dead rattlesnake.

They start to disappear in the atmosphere
and I swear there’s a hand waving
at me from the backseat.

Previously published on Poetry Super Highway.