Day 74 of 100 Poems/100 Days

740 Wagon

The engine perspires,
to give voice to fabric,
and I am the kidnapper’s ransom.

Our wagon is rusted now,
stuck in a farmhouse.

Driver’s seat, smells the same,
father’s cologne,
pre-trip he’d spray its skin,
wheel and flesh like parts of him.

Along 75 to Michigan,
I’d touch the corners,
four walls moving,
like four friends talking.

I’d lay in the back on my side,
the highway lights streaming,
fall asleep in one place,
to wake up in another.

My mother, the passenger, singing:
“The ship and its movement,
straight, corner, turn,
station, road, station,
gasoline and my oars.”


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s