Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Macomb to McLean

I drive east on 136
on crumbling asphalt
roads twist
and turn

around and through
those small towns;
could be any small town
peeling siding, broken porches

unmowed lawns whose weeds pray
for another day of rain
up one small hill, barely a rise at all
you don't even feel the fall as you head down

into the last remnants of
the great forests
that kept the land secret
before along came saws to tear down the trees

plowed into the hills
we called the land conquered
for the sake our Manifest Destiny
claimed it was only waiting for us to arrive

The old trees reach for each other
over the bits of road I drive on
like prisoners reaching
for contact through the bars

The fields stretch endless to the horizon
my heart leaps, my veins beat
this is the world I know most
this is the land I love best

old farmhouses with barns out back
precarious lean, losing paint
a woman shades her eyes
to see if she recognizes this stranger's car

the road straightens out
bored teenagers speed past me
looking for any way out
of these stretching fields

I don't go fast on this old highway
there is simply too much to see here
I settle into the old rhythm
driving to a house that is no longer


1 comment:

  1. Mommy IS looking and she thinks it's GREAT! You can write and then illustrate it!!!


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