Poems

Postcards


Brow that threatens to close my face
like a book
as it wrinkles road maps to Vegas.
The silly of it all,
the tracing of the lines across my hand
as I try (in vein I assume)
to understand
the vastness of your oceans
and the clutter
of your highways.

An undertow of indications
waving its hands in the air
as if to say
“Sea what vistas are on the horizon?”

Oh the careless drive you crazy
across lanes of concentration
into wide-eyed contemplations
of the worlds largest something something!
Do I really need another wrinkle in time
to add to my postcard pile?
“Why not?” says my conscionable seashell
always repeating the ocean back at me.

Time to read a book and hope
reverently
for less travel sickness hereafter.