Tuesday, November 27, 2007


Flickering streetlamps
that November evening chilly
dim brown
then darker still
in the parking lot
of the motel we call home,
we stop our racing game with the ball
and find Mother
in the kitchenette
with one burner cooling
the muddy light overhead
and the big room with the beds
and cots strangely rumpled
after that quick
cross-country trip
darkens with each thump of
our hearts
and we blink into black as
the grid tumbles
relay by relay
town by city by town
joining the millions of star-lost;
we hold our ball
and our words while
Mother finds a candle
a transistor radio
and the soup sits cooling fast.


One Response to “”

  1. Kevin Olsen said

    Could this possibly be one totally amazing sentence . . . Yes, I think so!

    Great job. Very sensory, very spacial, very enticing. I like it a lot . . . and that’s saying tons coming from me. I’m not normally a huge fan of free verse. 🙂


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: