When roads smooth out
and the rain is brief,
we keep Clementine nearby
to nick technology.
Then suddenly, white above
and blue below, sight-seen,
hold on to your launches,
the swerve is sickening.
Funny how way-stations
are only for couriers anymore,
while scenic lavender hillsides
for nomads to pitch their cheese.
break the wagon’s axel,
and no little battery can fix it,
we write to Mr. Morse to keep our pieces.
The slate is singing,
we wonder where it went.
It was Earth Day, after all,
why can’t it stay there?
It’s all the same from there to here,
except perhaps the voices.
Even the trees are the same shades of pink
and we’ve all got similar choices.
I was unable to post yesterday because I was traveling to a contra dance. I wrote this poem on the way there, and it’s all observations of things i saw or experienced on the road.