Three deer in a western cornfield
appear - my glance out the window turns into a poem
and i forget to curve. The craterous pot-holes of Telegraph Springs Road
snicker as my poor tires scrabble along, my car
a silver rag on a dirty washboard.
I down-shift absently, still trapped in
a shaft of sunlight,
breathing softly & flicking my white-tail.
Driving in November can be hazardous if you have eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment