Ride

My thumb, I look at it, pointed on in the direction I’m headed,
that famous destination of a’ways down the road apiece.
One of these days, mark my words, folks’ll stop picking up
guys bumming rides, the likelihood being they might do you in.

More and more’ll have done it, the ones you were kind enough
to offer rides, these future dudes who’ll not need to go anywhere.
They’ll jump in to rob you, rape you, kill you for a thrill, so unlike
the good old days of now when guys like me simply needed a ride.

My thumb, I wonder, staring at the sun-shiny nail like a painter,
can a thumb get too much sun, be cancer bound, boil red and blister,
burn up and spit open, split top to bottom like a fat, juicy hot dog
roasted over hot coals, shriveled up and dying, as they say, like a dog?

Oh, here’s a courteous one, I see, pulling over to the side just up ahead of me.
He’ll take a chance on someone from the past only wanting to keep moving on.