Sketched Out Roadways
Endless fields,
I don't notice them anymore.
I drive upon a video map
of ever repeating memories.
The land is flat,
the horizon hardly changes,
mile after mile
the same white noise
scratching eardrums.
Radio on --- not listening,
though somewhere in my head
Brahms has just finished
his fourth symphony,
an empty sky sighs
in my dry mouth.
A dog is barking,
a distant farm appears
through a corn haze.
Eyes back on the road again.
the ever rolling-on road -
its hypnotic hammer beats,
occasionally switching channels
in my mind.
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