Halfway between here and there,
madly in lovekin, two weary wanderers
roll off the 10 doing 80 at about 11 –
whose time, I don’t care to remember
now nor ever for that matter.

Doesn’t matter where time stands still –
those movie western looks with dusty roads
and matching moonlight makes one howl
in this Barstow to Arizona
holiday extravaganza known as Blythe.

Yes, the must-stop spot…you know the type:
Unless you’re towing a tanker full of gas
with a convenient porta-potty and
a caffeinated beverage dispenser,
you stop in Blythe. Stop and grumble in Blythe.

Stop and stumble, slipping in slow-motion
on unmopped bathroom tile while she fills the tank
with two hundred and forty dollars per gallon
of regular unleaded, gold coated, diamond encrusted,
how-else-could-you-explain-it gasoline.

Yes, Blythe — where your bean burrito sans onions
actually has extra onions and extra-friendly banter
from suburbian ghettoids. Yes, Blythe –
where the lines are longer and stranger than
Splash Mountain on a summer afternoon.

Halfway between there and here, still
madly in lovekin, two wary wanderers
roll onto the 10 doing 80 at 20 past 11 –
gladly lifting off from that alien planet.
Hyperbole? Try me. Have fun in Blythe.