Saturday, November 28, 2015
Songs From the Highwayman
Interstates play their own rhythm -
worn tires cross each block in the dirty
concrete road only years old,
but broken all the same.
The tempo accelerates with the gas,
as the radio sings things I've learned
because I've heard them for the last
twenty years, sang by six other men
and a great woman painting on a piano,
once upon a time.
Biting cold north winds held back
by volcanic flames scorching out of
my greenlit dashboard,
I wondered what to say
to you when you woke up;
because it would still be late October
and I have ever been useless
this time of year, just ask the ex-files.
When you returned to, you said first:
Verdant mountains burst to spring,
time dilated in ways
unpredictable by relativity.
So I said it was OK ~
the rhythm of the road playing on me;
nodding, weaving, bobbing my head,
steel one-hand grip, thumb tapping
on the wheel.
I looked at you and it was all right,
talking like that as the lights changed.
And you were home long before
I wrote the final lines to this song
that I will likely never sing,
because the song was stolen
by a broken Michigan highway.
All I know to do is
just let it play out
any way it wills.