she must have been a million miles this way toward me I wasn't
        sure she must have been asking for a way
        through what I couldn't be sure there would even be road to
        travel I never asked from which direction
        she had been led at which sign
        she had turned from which place and why
        she wasn't saying exactly where she thought she would be
        when it was all over she wasn't very young
        and not quite old all but a few lines seemed new
        around her eyes I could've said anything
        still I'm not sure it mattered I said what I knew I know
        now it happened in only a few minutes and for weeks
        I kept thinking I told her there would be nothing
        between here and the highway nothing more than a few barns
        Frank Mitchell's fields full of corn and tobacco the bridge
        is one-way wait and when no one is there on the other side
        cross with your headlights on that road will take you
        to the next town to the corner where the only diner that's open all the
        time sits someone there
        has lived lifetimes in these parts someone there can tell you
        how to get out without forever winding back
        into the same low hills she asked my name and I told her
        how long it might take if she made it before dark
        mornings I drive sometimes before daylight washes across these
        winter fields with my hands hard on the wheel I drive out
        past the first lighted windows the people just arriving
        for an early breakfast and I say my name I hear my name
        is Martha here I hear her just before she leaves

Copyright © Chris Young, 2004. All Rights Reserved.