Travel
A poem for America
Travel
I almost ask the frail Indian girl,
her dark eyes and skin withering
beneath the fluorescent light
of the Phillips 66. But I don’t.
I hand her my money and leave
remembering the shape of her face,
the weight of her gaze on my back.
It is five days into the New Year
and I think of the year that’s past
like a town I’ve driven out of,
a town where, if I had had the chance,
I would have worked my life
the way a man might work
a piece of wood, mindful
of the blade, working the knife
away from the body until
a face appears, then hands,
then fingers, and he is not alone.
Beautiful poem, like Suzanna, it's that line: I think of the year that's past like a town Ive driven out of
And the picture too.
So powerful: and I think of the year that’s past
like a town I’ve driven out of