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.