Westward pavement, rubberized asphalt made from big-rig tires. Newer versions roll thereon taking others to be ground. Now the tires, old and new, throb with pound of trailer, the last of eighteen wheels to pass a place of sweet remembrance. Driver drowsy drifts to shoulder, wakes in time to whip it back. Trailer wags a whimsic wander, out to gravel shoulder drifts. The rightmost tire grabs a rock in crevice of its tread; Lifts it, slings it, Upward, backward With cracking speed to glass. Flaps outstretched like waving hands wish that rock goodbye. The driver blinks and straightens, vows to stay awake, recalls a special deal he got one snowy day in Denver— fancy flaps with woman nude, tits up and facing back.