~ Outta Here ~a life of work and faith can rust away in the high weeds and over hanging limbs of an abandoned apple grove. How a name can fade in the daily ascent of the sun, how one enthusiastic blackberry vine can climb across the cracked and rotting vinyl seat of a truck, weave its way along the steering wheel, and spill onto the dash, pressing itself against the smoky glass for whatever light it can find. I have seen the remains of a door dangling from its failing hinges, left open by the last son who stepped down from the cab and walked in whichever direction was away. A son who walked until the field, truck, and trees were no longer visible and his sneakers had slapped awhile on the hot blacktop of a country road, who finally stuck his thumb into the face of a passing line of cars and caught the first ride... Outta here. Back to Poems |
