(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 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.