Interstate

A poem denoting the unusual beauty of the highway.

Poem by Annika Harley
Photography by John Adams III, garments by Amari Washington

There’s an elegance to the salt-sick stretch of pavement, Arlington Boulevard

A nauseating beauty in the endless push and pull of tin cans and cars dancing along the highway

I spent that summer observing Route 50 from a booth selling flowers to people with too much time on their hands 

Looking on at the motels and mini-malls desperately clinging to the interstate like so many lions and antelope around a watering hole

Passing the time, painting perfect little blue buildings in the condensation on the glass until the boiling August sun sizzled them away

Waiting for my next break to find some water or conversation, something to fill the profound emptiness in my belly

It was that summer that I became close acquaintances with the scattered handfuls of decrepit condos and aging office buildings wedged between cracks in the concrete

Buildings either stretching for the sky or squatting defeatedly along the asphalt

There was something almost spiritual about the rush of the freeway, a type of electricity saturated the air as the heat melted the sky into inky darkness

Cars screaming down the road like there was nothing left to lose save for some points on their license

Something about the little white cottage perched on the battered sidewalk would continue to catch my eye, the sign out front advertising “Psychic Reader” in letters that deserved a gold filigree

A hand-painted picture of a tarot card was propped in the window, directly facing my humble cash register, silently whispering to me the things I knew I didn’t want to hear.