… …
The car glides through
scenery that is only an anagram of
scenery from five, ten, two-hundred miles behind.
I see my reflection in the constant brown rocks on the roadside
in their blue-grey icicles
I see my Grecian urn
the ever-present yearn downwards,
an eternity of failure.
Each road sign that waxes and wanes is a reminder
a mirror image of all other testaments to highway safety
another reminder of the vast rolling sameness of New England.
Like a bullet, our journey has no plot arc,
we are only the straight line, dashed, from point A to point B.
I roll down the window/, -
Paradigm Shift!
The word is colors now,
and on the wind comes molecules of dust and scents rural and right,
the smoke from chimney tops are a hundred rude exclamation marks to my
discovery of America.
I am the new Christopher Columbus, sailed the ocean blue-
me big man now in history books.
Instantaneously I am the world’s foremost expert on apple pie.
narrating this tour with fireworks or gesturing,
peals of laughter over the roar of the wind in through the
window.
I have inborn knowledge now awakened of the secret lives of trees
from inception to destruction
I want to pull over and commute my sentence in favor of
a thick-booted and face burning run through the forest so much nearer now.
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