Northern Indiana roads
decompose and rust away
with strip mall homes;
the older the back way
the more blandly effiecient
aluminum eye sores. Bleakly
brightened by half broken
stone walls, sooty snow in the
corners of curbs, muted lawns
and a countryside sketched in dead gold.
New Year's weekend, we grew up here.
Resolutely we have been moving on,
starting new and putting our feet down.
In dullness, you drift into leathered repose;
if we were formed in these blank winters,
and even your resident parents are sprawled in our back seat,
what then unstills the un-unique?
Trite and true, I blink and smile,
the love on my tongue tastes of cream,
the crimson inside pumps of routine,
blessed, my God, the blessed unseen.
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1 comment:
I like the question. The rhyming triplet at the end is brilliant.
I may be reading wrong things into it, but tell me if this is anything close to what you were thinking:
You painted the scene, raised a good ontological question, but then ended it in a 'trite' as if to ignore the question. As if to say, "Oh well, life goes on and God is in it."
Whether you were thinking that or not, that's what I got. I guess that's the beauty of creativity. Sometimes there's more potential than we know (as creators).
As always, thanks for sharing.
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