What I want you to understand is that no road is remarkable until somebody's died on it. I mean, no offense to Jesus, but Golgotha's got nothing on the I-25, all that red pavement, all those white plywood crosses. Going-to-the-Sun is only as sublime as it is dangerous, because at any minute You could yank this steering wheel and send the two of us down into the pines, and every sucker on that red tour bus to therapy while we're at it. No, actually, what I mean is this: You're only as safe as every other bastard on the road decides you are, and there's mercy in that. No, sorry, I mean this: You're going faster than they can lay pavement, a roadrunner out where there's no more road. There's nothing wrong with a joyride but I want your headlights in the drive by nine, you hear me? Don't make me pull you out of crumpled steel on a highway you've just made remarkable. But I will pull you out, understand? I want you to understand that I'll pull you out.

Luke Larkin lives and writes in Missoula, MT. His work has been published or is forthcoming in places like HAD, Sonora Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, and others. He is a winner of the AWP Intro Journals Project in poetry, and he edits Unstamatic Magazine.