Jack drums his fingers on the steering wheel
while I watch the exit ramps speed by 
like a tape reel on fast forward,
looking for some kind of sign
or message written in the code 
of interstate numbers or hidden 
symbol in the names of highways or roads:

Jack is the first to break the silence,
“You and I,” he says, “are famous
unknown persons.” He pauses,
then continues, “Without us,
the whole earth, 
the universe might disappear.”

Then I repeat my name, then Jack’s,
next, I recite all the names
in our family: Armenian, American,
Persian, and the names of all
the homesick along the highways
and back roads of America.

We drive along, the radio 
tuned to a talk show, 
the constant murmur of voices
merging with traffic noise, whistling wind, 
the sound of the disappearing landscape, 
and famous unknown persons, 
history’s hitchhikers, trailing behind.