Friday, March 6, 2015

Friday Nights

starting off at dusk--
on car piled, metal snake
slinging cement gray road
plied by mass of commuter transit
nightmares, all hands headed to opposite
shores, quiet homes, small
pleasures, lonely hours,
ovens cold, fast food on table top,
missing children, barking dogs, hungry
cat, snow shifting madness, waiting tolls--
I get those sad groaning butterflies
of driving east, driving toward the old
shore, the thick waves of brown atlantic--
away from the great western stretch,
pioneers and new lands, fabled
journeys long etched into memory--
those sad eastern butterflies of
going home, of timelessness, and long
lost childhoods reaching out to me,
speaking in languages
I can no longer comprehend.

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