Cadillac Ranch
Poetry and Prose by Britt Wolfe
When I hear Cadillac Ranch,
I still see you—
hands loose on the wheel,
that big boat of a car cutting through
dust and distance
like we were going somewhere that mattered.
I don’t know how we got from there to here—
from promise to ruin,
from the open road to a cul-de-sac of silence.
Years piled up like wreckage,
hope burned down and down again,
a raging inferno
that refused to die,
feeding on itself
until even the ash was gone.
Now it’s just dust,
caught in the wind,
blowing through the cracked window of memory,
swirling around me in circles—
a tornado of almosts
and could-have-beens.
And still, I write.
Because the writing is all that’s left.
Because if I stop,
you stop existing.
Every line is a search for you,
every verse a map of loss—
figuring out how to live with
what will never return,
turning pain into language
that haunts only me.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe
