Stephen King Adopts a Highway

Andrea England

I point out the sign to my husband after eating pasties
in St. Ignace. He is not impressed. We’ve lost reception
and all of our CDs are scratched beyond the ruts of old
LPs. Driving West on Route 2, I amuse myself with thoughts
of the shaggy-haired preacher with coke-bottle glasses—
May the Lord be with you—in his best gold and tangerine,
metal gopher reaching down, fingers pinching for wax-
lined cups and cigarette butts thrown from car windows.
The flora changes from walnut to cedar, the ticks like ants
on melon. We’ll stop at the antique store half-way home
and learn that Stephen King is an ordinary guy, a once
mayor to one of these peninsula towns. The man behind the
counter smiles at our disappointment. Name one love you
wouldn’t bring back from the grave or tell me you’ve never
played God just to see the soil turn beneath your feet.