Dangerous Thoughts on a Highway

Fall descends (here comes again

A seasonal verse, please humor me);

I-95, rugged spine

Of this East Coast,

Receives it indifferently,

Like a tired wife-then-mother whose

Glazed-over-eyes stare

Blankly, at her dreams

Eons in the rearview.

Rhode Island kamikaze pilots—

Pickup trucks of broken men—

Are your Law and Order for the day.

That much has not changed.

Milquetoast musings on the cycle of seasons

Have not changed much, either.

You muse anyway.

Each recollection, rumination

Lights spritely on the tumbling brooks

Of your concerns, but some sink deep

And divert the stream, and now you think

About not so beautiful things.

They don’t brush off like the crunchy leaves

From your windshield this morning.

The next step is to pull over.

Are your musings dead-on-arrival,

Wounds, or a precondition’s revival?

Poetic answers come with presuppositions:

Nothing is new about New England’s turning leaves.

Nothing is new about fearing for your life on I-95. But,

Something is new about visiting a past recently buried

And knowing it stalks the autumn wind not as new life,

But as a ghost. What else is there to do, but

Talk to it again, this time as a man, and figure why

The two of you left things where you did,

Colored only halfway last time.