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Poetry
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| The Road You Make | |
| By bwoz | ||||||||
| 17 February 2007 | ||||||||
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“In life,” he said in punchy words, “You make your own road.” To that podium his road had run full of ruts, littered with drunken fights, empty promises, cheated victories for his embittered family Now all standing to crutch his wounded dignity to honor and remember his deedless life and his profound courage to live it. The gray lady before me, her road well traveled through then and now, the lean times of “just make it work” to far lands of lesser culture, Quonset huts and quinine sometimes passing through the Burroughs, Old Bean Town and the quiet autumn towns where once we all lived and died dreaming. Then four lanes – now just a golf cart path The young man seated in the center of my eyes, his road speeds along ardent lanes of inspiration so all he need do is keep between the lines, only stop to fill up, and don’t exit too soon. Start early and quit before dark to find a nice motel with a pool and cable TV where all his friends are waiting to rejoice And a woman called desire, her red dress a sleek convertible, she moves along her road at a comfortable speed so we all can gaze at her perfect approach, waving from the passenger seat with a silver-toothed man to drive and help her smile. He is her sister’s husband’s brother I am told, and much older. His road too I would think. And my road, it wanders through busy streets traffic lights and exhaust fumes, then out to the old highway where I can breathe easier and speed if I want, to the crumbling asphalt of abandoned years where I slow down to preserve tread, straight ahead to find my rutted dirt road; my podium at the edge of where the horizon looms and I’ll have to walk from here.
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