There and Back Again

IndianapolisEighteen hours there. The same back.
Midwest roads, broad fields of corn,
ready for harvest. Soybeans. A tree
here and there breaking up the horizon.
The hum of tires on straight roads.
Bypassing the cities.
Buffalo. Cleaveland. Columbus.
The only one you actually see is Indianapolis

When you squint, the color fades
and it is like an old movie, black and white,
depression era and somehow you feel like you fit right in
except for the eyes. Yours sparkle.
in love with the road,
long hours and the sound of macadam
your moment of zen, better even than
the destination, whether you are coming
of going.

What then? What happens in between?
The past relived and reimagined. Poetry.
Memories of love and anticipation of more
than you have now. Not that now is a bad place.
But there is always a dream left to live,
and that is what separates you
from the silver-tinted pictures from the depression –
hope.

The tire hums.

About this poem.

I made a trip to visit one of my daughters in the Midwest this week. A two day drive. And two days back. Time well spent, all of it.

The picture was taken in the barn of the nearby Consider Bardwell farm.

Tom