Hitch-Hiker Frank Cavano


Student with the Pontiac’s gone.

I’ll have to hoof it three miles to

the bridge and then thumb.

Menacing flakes have been

falling for hours now. When I

trudge will its cold soup top

my bootless feet? Or is it the kind

that renders a gun shot with each step?


In my storm precipitated scarf I

reach the bridge. Icicle hands

discourage issuing even a thumb but

it’s the only way. In time an old

Buick slides to the curb and a

passenger, back right, ushers me in.

One on each side of me. Two up

front. All converse in Spanish.


Four miles later, I feel a point between

two ribs. Its wielder on my right spits

out: “Got any money, man”? I wonder

if this is it. Someone inside of me

counters: “If I had any money,

man, would I be riding with you”?


The boss-driver launches an instructive

laugh. The others chorus up. With a

yellow light’s caution, I smile. Boss-driver

issues and order in English: “Lose that

blade, Pablo”. He gets the message.


At the next stop sign I tell them I get

off here. Two miles to walk but at least

I’m outside. Drenched feet are mysteriously

warm. I catch a snowflake on my tongue

and begin



Frank is a retired physician who writes for the pure joy of the experience. Most of his poems fall into the spiritual/inspirational/metaphysical realm. Such efforts have been published many times in online and/or print entities including The Penwood Review, vox poetica, Visions with Voices, Indigo Rising, cell2soul and The Whirlwind Review. He is always trying to improve his craft.