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Wreck on 29

A poem comes from mysterious places. Where I grew up in Wisconsin the country roads were sometimes like tunnels in the snow. Banks and heaps of snow were like pillows in the fields and roadsides. Headlights reflected back as to make the road nearly bright as day.

Sometimes I would switch off the headlights when I drove in winter. Often the moonlight was enough to drive by. It was a peaceful blue drive.

Let those memories soak for a few decades. Move to California and find yourself driving

moonlit night between road shoulders sunburnt blonde. This poem emerged:


WRECK ON 29

At seventy miles an hour

eyes open, windows closed,

he drove with one finger

stuck in the wheel, curled

round the rim and knuckles

on the bar. He drove all night.

There is an elegance

to the moon, he reflected,

as its ghostly orb filled

the windshield. I don’t

even need my lights.




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