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Roadside
Curbside are snapshots of revelation
they invoice the passing
as stations upon a cross, or rosary beads
from the corners of hard driven eyes.
We count the faces of onlookers like cars
for they count us not,
or may enter our speeding vehicles
as flashes of sunlight upon glass.
Roadside, is a rotting log
sporting small dainty flowers
amid exhaust fumes.
Roadside, both the living and killed
turn in a part glimpsed mobile
reflecting our own brief leaving.
We move too fast to see it all,
layers return as later onlookers
when the car ticks warm and parked.
There is a strange abashment in speed,
a tomorrow-ness in the momentary watch
of those we pass.
The world becomes a known stranger
met on the tip of hastily thrown spear.
We distracted tourists
drive into the heart of questions.
Mind intones our place in time,
a fresh moment we have yet to arrive at,
one in which
we did not crash and burn in - just yet,
and tomorrow waits
to begin another new odyssey.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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