Transcendental Highway
Traveling the
transcendental highway
early in the morning,
simply an extension
of my daily yoga.
The great semis zip by
in both directions,
like elephants on roller skates
in the first light,
only a flat tire away
from disaster.
Like a zen master I travel
with the knowledge of a thousand days
behind, in front of, around, on the curve
effortlessly, without thought, immersed in thought,
hitting my marks,
Lakeville highway at 5:22,
Highway 37 at 5:37.
One little bead on a tail light chain,
and sometimes other masters from
a thousand trips will be recognized,
and we will travel together for awhile,
safe in the knowledge
that no one will make the mistakes of
the occasional traveler.
On most days, however,
this is a solitary trip,
with body alert and automatic pilot on,
the mind transcends time and space,
and answers to old questions appear,
poetry sprouts from magic synapses,
and many times I have created a world
of only me and you,
and all the things that I should have said
and done,
could have said and done,
are done,
all in the limitless space between
points A and B.
The old Greek had it right. If you touch an
infinitude of points,
you'll never get there.
But I am not that good yet
and still skip a few points,
and at 6:10 the stop light
on Golf Course road
interrupts the transcendental highway,
and a more mundane day begins,
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