Somewhere on the interstate,
the sky busts out a Rothko,
a deep red-orange, the wash
tinted blue by the windshield.

So you roll down the window,
lean out into the late light,
tail a rusted-out pickup
‘til you hit the rumble strip.

Above you, the pigment deepens;
the sky cycles through canvases and the
glowing route signs are museum captions,
every flyby town with a Rothko to its name.

You zip through galleries
named for passing billboards.
Who knew Cracker Barrel
was a patron of the arts?

And as you gun it
into the heart of No. 6,
“Do You Know JESUS?”
rises out of the trees.