By Joseph Hesch
It’s probably a good way to be killed,
driving along the highway and
letting the stereo’s music fade the road,
its yellow, yellow, yellow lines,
into something else.
And then the words start to come,
prompted maybe by lyrics and carried
on a melody of tires strumming asphalt
as much as steel strings on a spruce-topped box.
arias and lamentations
distractingly pass between us,
the speeding world and me,
like the gashes of sky between the pine trees
that rip past the corners of my eyes.
I absent-mindedly compile lines of words,
strung like all those trucks and cars
in their own sentences
ahead and behind me,
blindly rushing somewhere.
It reminds me of how I recklessly
drive hopes that never happened
and memories that never will.
But that makes me smile,
because, yeah, this is a good way to be killed,
but one hell of better way to live.