(A Poem of Past Crimes)
-You’ve rubbed my treds raw and my heart to red again,
you old faithful highway.
-I should’ve followed your lively lit lanes to her, instead of my way.
-So now, it’s daily that I’ll pay.
-A tattoo of your journey’s image is textured atop my brain.
-And, also, there’s a bittersweet pheromone from a perfume stain.
-It’d be picturesque if a mesh was possible of pleasure and pain.
-Oh Ness!…that stretch ends in your name.
-But, the journey is as consistent as is the destination, in never remaining the same.
-Grit, gravel, crannies, cracks, lanes and lines have no limited gossip in the least.
-They could tell you about the beauty, or they could tell you about the beast.
-Our road ran North and South.
There’s none navigated to East or West.
-Concrete can best narrate why love ceased.
-Oh, 287, if I race your face now, it’s to trace my proper place down.
-Those warm thoughts are eager to slip out my head.
-But, I re-center them back on my skull like a crown.
-Another beer is here to interrupt my frown.
-Let me remain solid as led.
-My belly sat full and matched my spirit perfectly
for that long ride, where you never heard from me.
-While you sleep, let me turn up and old tune to match this sin.
-She senses the wicked.
-She could hear the silent language from within.
-I’ll play dark games, but I’ll never win.
-Thinking of her more than they, makes the crime no better.
-Perhaps, her pavement could make me slide.
-Slick me with oil when the night is wetter.
-So, it’s more than settled—more than it could ever be.
-287 will charge my fine for her sanity.
-I beg for your persecution, and don’t be scared to provoke her vanity.
-No more warm treks to and fro, just the cold sting of a January’s morning venture, to work.
-My tears are raindrops to a windshield—a blurry vision for a jerk.
-Modesty should be the route.
-But, modesty can’t overpower the truth, when you’re life exist in the mud.
-There’s no more deceit
and no more lust.
-There’s no more defeat
in the battle with mistrust.
-So, until these tires give way to your complexion, 287,
echo “Ness” through me.
-Get me back to a heaven.
-Though I’m saddened by the reverberations of her name in your streets,
I’ll turn back up the rhythm on the radio, for the rest of time, to match her heartbeats.
“287 and Runnin’”
is a poem featured my second published upcoming anthology,
“A Pale Face for a Collar: Testimonials of an Office Rat,”
AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE ON NOW!