by Earl J Wilcox
Like when it’s dark and rainy
and you’ve driven
a long way
in rain and fog
and you think
you know where
you’re going
but discover
with some heaviness
you have no clue
on a road
freshly paved
in black asphalt
without white lines
to keep you
from falling off
the side into
dark gullies
and the road signs
have no incandescence
to illuminate
your way
and falling leaves
paste your windshield
clog your wipers
and the road
narrows
into a lane
barely bigger
than a pig path
and is ending
imminently
when you decide
to pick up a jogger
who might know
where he’s going
as we clearly do not.
In our backseat
he huffs
and drips
rain on us
but soon points
to a bleary street sign
where the house we want
with a warm fire inside
stands in stark silence.
Earl J. Wilcox writes about aging, baseball, literary icons, politics, and southern culture. His work appears in more than two dozen journals; he is a regular contributor to The New Verse News. More of Earl's poetry appears at his blog, Writing by Earl.
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