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
to forget
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.



Anonymous said...

I like... your stuff always makes me think... there's always a little mystery... ha!... that's the way Sing always happy to see you writing again... keep "flying" ... ya know? :-)


eric1313 said...

I love flying more and more every day! Thank you for the encouragement, my friend.

Shimmerrings said...


eric1313 said...

Clink! lol

sandyland said...

Never disappoints a special sky

eric1313 said...

Thank you, Sandy. My poetry fans are the very best of the best.

Charles Gramlich said...

"Stolen by a highway," There's great resonance in that line. Makes me think of some roads I've driven.

eric1313 said...

Yep, wondering where, when and exactly how something important got left behind.

eric1313 said...

After a couple of days, I guess I have to say this one was just writing down a moment so I would not forget it.

It just happened to be a pretty good poem, too, I felt.