Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.228
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
Sitting on a rusted blue bench the sun blew down on me a cool 
     green and yellow as the afternoon tucked me into 
     bed,      

The depot was old, no busses run anymore at least as far as I 
     know only ghosts get off at this stop.   

White paper houses drifting along the plain finding themselves
     comfortable and settled in the cardboard cow-towns of 
     cool America.    

Crying to me “Where do you go?” with a stop for a sip of black 
     coffee and the dirt on the ground ends up on my shoelace but 
     I don’t care.  

I see apparitions float into the motel and out of town and hop
     over the sea in one leap then over in India where the 
     children cry and soon enough everything is a ghost 
     floating its way around the blue-green earth 
     and not really minding me just going along and brushing 
     the dust off themselves.    

I look to my right, I see the road leading into town and a bird 
     flies above in the shape of the color off-white then like 
     a car drives off to the west, west, west as the 
     continent unrolls like a Mohammedan carpet under 
     their feet.     

The wind continues to tumble along and drops at my feet the 
     lonesome cry of a locomotive whistle not that far away from me
     soon a train rumbles over me and I am crushed finely into
     powder and carried down by the wind hopefully to end 
     up at my mother’s front door not some hole in the ground
     that would be dreadfully lonesome.    

Now the motel lights flicker clinging to life and it's just 
     dark enough for me to notice the headlights stopping by 
     for a how-do-you-do before rolling on and looking at me but 
     just passing probably because I’m a mess and dirty
     and hair’s greasy but I promise I’m still kicking.

Soon though I may die so that a skeleton bus can roll 
     through this sometimes-town at sunset and out steps a
     weary driver with broom and dustpan in hand to pick up 
     my bleached bones and dump me in the back seat hopefully 
     by a window because I like to lay my head against it 
     to sleep where it’s comfortable and my grinning cadaver 
     will ride through this country and over hills and 
     hollers around the world and look back every 4 and a 
     half miles and sigh because I’m looking back
     To that Lincoln Highway Greyhound Station.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required