She Calls It Sorrow

She put willow switches,

knotted bits of string and fear,

sharper corners of gumwrapper chain,

the long stuff of regret

into a pasteboard guitar case -

threw it in the trunk.

 

On Northerly Island,

she took one last look at the skyline,

mocked on Lake Michigan,

the stillborn wave

of a song no-one played,

then off on LSD

to hit the Skyway.

 

She hoped to clear Indiana and Ohio

on the overnight -

Nothing to see there

but the steel mill she once

called Emerald City.

 

She hoped to stop dawn

with the blindfold of Appalachia.

She tried to sink stars

with the twitching-dog lights

of towns rolling by,

but none went down.

 

She had to pay to piss.

She bought a fill and grim pie

at a Shell in Sandusky,

spilled famished onto the turnpike,

all french fries and gravy

because the road was rising.

 

She spooned out

of Breezewood's bowl.

She numb-knuckle knew

it was nothing to home,

sun was on the foothills.

 

An hour forty five

to the tavern she once called

Enchanted Forest.

Driving blind memory,

like tip-toeing night rooms,

to the yellow house on the hill

she once called green.

 

She idled for fifteen

until shadow slurred

across the window

she once called hers

and flickered dead out.

◄ Walking Hopper - a prose poem

The Monkey Trap of Suicide Hill ►

Comments

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Devon Brock

Sun 16th Jun 2019 09:11

Thanks Eiren. I appreciate your comment.

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Eiren Water

Sun 16th Jun 2019 09:04

This pulled memories and feelings I didn't have properly filed until now. Thank you.

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Devon Brock

Thu 13th Jun 2019 22:21

Thank you Martin

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Martin Elder

Thu 13th Jun 2019 16:59

You evoke such wonderful pictures of everyday life with your poetry.
I look forward to reading more.
Nice one

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