Nothing more than wiper slap –
smear light on a dirty windshield,
starbusting streetlamps through
pitted glass sliding
greasy on the bridge:
Every billboard passed,
every sign, every whine,
every slumped leaning
off ramp neighborhood,
a blurred jagged vision
of what it is, what it was,
what it might be,
Though some hazy refracted,
gray on gray beam,
from out there, back there,
through the pupil to the retina,
turned again into a shape
that wasn’t hers to begin with.
But there she is,
behind a salt-crust window,
half-eaten by the blinding slats,
a perfect, distorted slouch
in a booth of vinyl bygones
off exit eighty nine,
with a bucket of fries
on her hands –
and I spit by
on a wet highway
to who the hell knows where.
Image: Kristijan Arsov on Unsplash
Now this one is a masterpiece. It’s very profound and the image is so precisely captured, as always my photographic poet friend. It just takes you there, wherever that is. I picture an old highway, asphalt rushing towards you and losing itslef unde the wheels going backwards, heading to whence you come from, where you left. A
ll you see is this jagged grey. And signs and silence. Now the “she” you refer to, I don’t know who’s it about and where exactly it is you’re going. But I love it. The words are magnificent!
Get Outlook for Android
I do appreciate your comments and support. The “she” in the poem is everything and everyone I’ve ever loved and had to leave, whether by choice or circumstance.
All the best,
Devon, a superbly crafted penning… mesmerizingly brilliant.
Thank you, Lance,
I’ve been working this poem for a bit, thinking about old loves and time gone by, those haunting images of what could have been, but never came to fruition. Not out of any source of regret, mind you, just those things that blind you in the night, in the rain, on the road.
A sincere pleasure, Devon. Where most thoughts dwell… good to release them.
Readers, try reading this out loud. This has a punk feel to it, like some mid-west Thompson.
Thank you, Nuz. That is very kind.