Anyway, here's my rough freewrite. I want to come back and play with this poem a little more and think about the journey as a metaphor for life, the rest stop like a philosophical fork in the road, where you can turn around and retreat back home, or punch the gas full speed towards your destination, goal, whatever.
We’re halfway through this journey
Up the state of Texas and my husband
Says he has to stop and piss. We pull off
Into a rest stop, and on the roadside
There blooms an abundance of wildflowers
An embarrassment of colors, petals blushing
As numerous as stars on a clear night –
Winecups like puckered lips, Indian
Paintbrushes like wisps of blood,
Bluebonnets reflecting heaven, at once
So far away and at the fingertips.
The flowers sway in spring’s gusts
Of wind on the equinox. The beauty
Overwhelms, too much to take in
Here, in this place where trucks idle,
Spewing black smoke into the air,
Where a man in his car hurridly
Unwraps a burger, stuffs his mouth
With fries, where a child scurries
Across the lawn and tramples flowers
Under her sandals as she makes her way
To the rest stop’s bathrooms. This place,
Is almost heaven but not quite, drenched
In sun, unearths a mid-journey crisis –
Where are we going anyway? I ask.
And why not turn around? My husband shrugs.
The road behind us stretches, endless,
Turns to ocean. The road ahead, the same.
At noon, the stomach rumbles.
We’ve miles to go together.