Well folks, apologies in advance, I’ve got a coffee hangover and ears ringing with the glorious song of the road, and Robert Frost’s New Hampshire found it’s way to my audiobook library. The miles slip by, and I’m the faintest echo of Ray and Japhy in The Dharma Bums, stunned by the evening air and the elusive memory of something that hides behind the haybales before slipping away entirely.
“Mad, mad, I say!”
(In other words, brace yourself, it’s time for a poem. Or two.)
South Again
The little red car matches the light, blinks amber for refreshment
I didn’t understand a word of what she said behind the counter, and maybe I signed up for the new 7-Eleven app, or maybe I didn’t
But she seemed to beam up from the dingy corner when I go back to ask
A rare moment of humanity in her day of cigarettes and lotto tickets that never hit
“Yes, yes, it’s guuud.”
So I guess it is.
Now the little red car contrasts the green, and it’s south again
Towards the rising hills blue and hayfields now silent
The mowing and baling has stopped, along with the urgency of terms and conditions at noon
Leaving only the cool of the evening, perfumed like the air in the mall
Tries to be.
This Wind
This wind
Always rides shotgun
And on my shoulder
With a gentle tease
“Don’t say I messed up your hair, nobody will believe you”
We hold tranquil conference
Old friends in a moving living room
Sitting there with a cup of coffee
As the railroad slips by on the left
“Wouldja look at that barn. I wonder who pays the electricity bill?”
This wind
(with the cousin who haunts Memory Lane)
Lives behind the speed limit sign that says
Fifty five
Comes to visit whenever I need a think.
Also, have some Bach. What brilliance!