Out here, we are the edge of somewhere and nowhere,
The last stretch of stateside before the river runs south.
This town clings to the border like it forgot where to go,
Like we are all half-waiting to cross over, but never quite do.
The highway bridges at the water’s edge,
Where only the brave or the lost take that final step.
There is a sense of leaving baked into our streets,
Empty storefronts and cracked paint, memories curling at the seams.
People passing through as if pulled by a compass,
Or heading home, burdened by hope or regret.
And those of us who stay, caught in the middle of things,
We feel the pull, too, the highway calling us forward.
Sometimes I think we are ghosts of the last American exit,
Keeping watch, barely remembered, barely here.
In the headlights and shadows, our days play out,
Familiar as dawn, uncertain as dusk.
Some nights, I hear voices in the wind,
Like Sinclair’s words weaving through the fog,
Telling me it is okay to want to go and okay to stay,
That some borders are not meant to be crossed,
But sometimes you have to drive until the road disappears.