I sang for an hour once

while thumbing on a road

that cut through California redwoods.

The sober trees

made me feel silly,

and the acoustics were bad.

A blond in a red sportscar stopped,

so I prepped myself

for whatever degree of insanity I was in for

as I trotted to the car.

Her dilemma involved a carpenter and a star.

Said she loved them both.

My farsightedness allowed me

to read the sign from way back:

San Francisco

250 miles.

I thought of something to say:

"The best place to sing while hitching

is under an overpass."

Her breasts stood-out

as she straightened her back,

pulled over, returned me

to the formal wilderness,

then did a u-turn

to get the something

she said she had forgot.

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