WHEN THE DRIVE COMES DOWN

This river of rock
not quite a bed
on a hot afternoon but waiting
could be springtime, as in late May.
Maybe my heart is ice after all
as you say, a logjam.
Down we go, all the same question
rumbling around the bend.

Somewhere in that gravel-gouged thicket
there were hobos and Gypsies
it’s hard to tell which, now.

poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson

 

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