I nearly tripped over his walking stick
at the convenience store
where I buy smokes and brownies.
He said he was
a union carpenter from Ohio;
that his trail name was Solo
since he travels alone to set his own pace;
that he wanted a bottle
of cheap vodka for camp
up on the ridge
later that night
while he'd recap the scenes
and strangers he'd seen.
Two miles north
all of his current possessions
sat unguarded within his pack
in the bed of my truck
as I waited in the liquor store parking lot.
He wasn't worried that I'd leave.
Part of me was.
Back across the bridge
we said our farewells.
Maybe the lift
wasn't free.
Perhaps we traded--
that hitchhiker and I--
a ride for a few more
justified moments alive.
Currently reading:
"Rattle: Fall 2019".
