Roadtripping
E.C Gannon | Poetry, Spring 2024
I’ve lived too much of this life in moldy, mid-
century motels. Ones with cockroaches perched
on every picture frame, frames framing horses
in the snow. Wood paneling. A musty-smelling
armchair. A TV that picks up two stations.
A continental breakfast, sheets that won’t
stay tucked. It always feels familiar, smells like
my grandfather, the one who’s been dead
for fifteen years. Mothballs and Marlboro.
When was the last time I ate a meal
that didn’t need to be wrapped in tissue?
Have I become an expert on interchange patterns?
It’s been so long since I slept through the night,
undisturbed by strange noises from the radiator
or moans from the lovers on the other side
of the wall. It’s delirium, the yellow line beside
me, the rain on the windshield, exiting a state
I didn’t know I had entered. In the rearview,
every car looks like a cop. I don’t know anything anymore,
anything other than the empty space
between the double beds and fantasies
about how much longer I have to remain in motion
before I stumble off the interstate, dizzy and empty-
tanked, and find a small town that smells like home.
___________________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“I did my undergrad in Tallahassee and returned home to New Hampshire for breaks, which means I drove up and down the East Coast a number of times, though certainly not enough to account for all the poems I've written about long-haul road trips. I was wondering why the subject is so attractive to me as a writer, and this poem is, I think, a partial answer.”
E.C. Gannon's work has previously appeared in a few small magazines. A Bostonian by birth, she holds a degree in creative writing and political science from Florida State University. She is currently trying to stay warm in New Hampshire.
Roadtripping
E.C Gannon | Poetry, Spring 2024
I’ve lived too much of this life in moldy, mid-
century motels. Ones with cockroaches perched
on every picture frame, frames framing horses
in the snow. Wood paneling. A musty-smelling
armchair. A TV that picks up two stations.
A continental breakfast, sheets that won’t
stay tucked. It always feels familiar, smells like
my grandfather, the one who’s been dead
for fifteen years. Mothballs and Marlboro.
When was the last time I ate a meal
that didn’t need to be wrapped in tissue?
Have I become an expert on interchange patterns?
It’s been so long since I slept through the night,
undisturbed by strange noises from the radiator
or moans from the lovers on the other side
of the wall. It’s delirium, the yellow line beside
me, the rain on the windshield, exiting a state
I didn’t know I had entered. In the rearview,
every car looks like a cop. I don’t know anything anymore,
anything other than the empty space
between the double beds and fantasies
about how much longer I have to remain in motion
before I stumble off the interstate, dizzy and empty-
tanked, and find a small town that smells like home.
________________________________________________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“I did my undergrad in Tallahassee and returned home to New Hampshire for breaks, which means I drove up and down the East Coast a number of times, though certainly not enough to account for all the poems I've written about long-haul road trips. I was wondering why the subject is so attractive to me as a writer, and this poem is, I think, a partial answer.”
E.C. Gannon's work has previously appeared in a few small magazines. A Bostonian by birth, she holds a degree in creative writing and political science from Florida State University. She is currently trying to stay warm in New Hampshire.