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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.
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