The Slow Drive by Taber
Mike Shaw
Roadside
of Highway 3,
our econoline van burps & stops
for ten minutes under a despotic
sun.
We sing & goosestep playfully,
arms over each other’s shoulders,
through a tidy grain field--
a wondrous refuge from the
thin, framed paradises gently creased
in our jeans.
You chime that that the schmuck
who laughs last will be the loneliest.
My head shakes, & I shrug
for primetime effect.
Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.
Doesn’t matter from us, from this autumn grain
share origin in the ancestral stardust pools?
We might be star babies in the milky way’s womb,
out of the enormous bang no one could hear.
That ‘s our prehistoric unity, before the literate
madmen had words, before the sunburnt
loner would giggle at himself,
at overlooked kinship in shoe
dirt.
Mike Shaw
Roadside
of Highway 3,
our econoline van burps & stops
for ten minutes under a despotic
sun.
We sing & goosestep playfully,
arms over each other’s shoulders,
through a tidy grain field--
a wondrous refuge from the
thin, framed paradises gently creased
in our jeans.
You chime that that the schmuck
who laughs last will be the loneliest.
My head shakes, & I shrug
for primetime effect.
Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.
Doesn’t matter from us, from this autumn grain
share origin in the ancestral stardust pools?
We might be star babies in the milky way’s womb,
out of the enormous bang no one could hear.
That ‘s our prehistoric unity, before the literate
madmen had words, before the sunburnt
loner would giggle at himself,
at overlooked kinship in shoe
dirt.
