Monday, February 15, 2010


How to explain to someone who has never driven out of state.
When I have driven more miles in a year than most people
drive in their life, what can I say about the drive they would believe?
A lot of bad poetry, and a lot of good has been written about the road.
Johnny Winter sings of Highway 61, bleachers on the shoulder,
Abraham with a knife to his son’s throat, the shadowed profile
of a mother’s seventh son, telephones that will not ring.
The Boss cruising mansions of glory on suicide machines.
The rumble of iron thunder, the thunder of iron steeds,
Steppenwolf providing the soundtrack to a bat out of hell.
The road has my heart.
I have spent more time behind the wheel than any other place.
At rest my hands sit curled, fingers around a steering wheel’s rim.
I always notice the hawks in the trees.
I always drive with the windows down.
Want to find out what kind of a person you are?
Drive from Appleton to Dallas and back in forty eight hours.
Want to find out where your soul is?
Watch a thunder storm roar through the Badlands late afternoon.
Turn a curve and see clouds beneath you.
How could I do other than I do?
Plenty time for one place when I’m dead.
And when I die, don’t plant me in the ground.
Throw my ashes to the wind
and let me go where I will.

1 comment:

  1. o, christ, man -- one helluva fine poem -- makes me want to drive to chicago and back just to hear the wheels go 'round . . .