Things were not advancing much
though we hurtled across the tar;
conversation was grinding to a halt
& that was something
I needed desperately to avert.
“Ah! Yes,” he interposed quite eerily,
Having clearly read my thoughts, yet again:
“The halt and the lame
Will one day rule the highways.”
“An interesting proposition Bob,
Which also shows you have not
Lost your touch with words; indeed
I suppose you know all too well
How deeply words can touch.
I myself couldn’t think of a rhyme for ‘halt’
Or use it in just that way- like a gestalt-
So I do thank you so kindly for
Your paranormal interpolation.”
“It’s my work,” he returned drily, “I do
It for a pay and when it’s over
I’d just as soon go on my way.”
“ ‘Hurricane’ ” blurted I, “your protest
Song of high distinction! Well,
That’s my earnest, humble opinion.”
To which he just gave a longsidelong glance
Simultaneously wrenching the wheel hard left
And taking a minor exit quite unexpectedly.
“So,” I timidly enquired, “Bob,” ( I was working
Up to it), “Where exactly are we headed?”
He grinned a grimace as only he can
Which was as much to say I should have known.
“We’re goin’ down this road some to
Where the winds of war are still blowin’
For there’s still some good fodder there
For the wordsmith and the songster.”
That’s Bob, thought I, contented in this knowledge
(Which left me none the wiser), always purposely
Imprecise, speaking in a kind of cipher.
He must have sensed my discomfort then
And added a cryptic, though reassuring “After”
I boldly countered with “Before”
And he smiled knowingly.
This was a splendid game we played
A game and nothing more.
I was supping at his table
And he was serving up a feast.
I was the Frankie Lee perhaps
To Bobby’s Judas Priest, and there was
No telling who first would be released.