The Poetry of
Jack Scott


On the virgin turnpike snow
no traffic, no tire prints,
the only footprints, mine.
There’s no white line,
it’s all white line.

Las Vegas to Chicago
in 25 hours by thumb;
at that rate of speed
I’m 23 from home,
a small reward
for pointless movement
into suspended time
where all has frozen to a stop.

The fruitcake’s gone;
I’ve got money,
but no place to spend it.
Not down to hunger yet;
there’ll be a house in sight, I hope,
before my stomach grumbles.

I rode and drove away from warmth
because each car was warm
and softer than the roadside
and came from tired to tireder.
No sweat, it’s cold
and soundless,
like dreaming in a freezer
beneath a lid of night.



427 ®Copyright 1974 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.