We once passed a veteran carrying a rolled up banner. He waited by the stoplight and we sat in my car, undecorated in a silent parade, listening for sirens singing under the lull of insects on Route 11; They say it was once a Cherokee hunting trail and I am hunting for tomorrow in an alley where rain does not help concrete bleed and children hope for sleep. And I am looking for a place past those yellow used car lot signs where the letters are missing and the ceremonies of youth are paraded in a burial procession; it's where the asphalt bends into the mountain side like a child's train, unbeguiled and waiting for rain.
Reason for writing:
I was inspired to write this poem when I
was sitting in a coffee house on Route 11;
I thought about all who had once travelled this road and
considered my youth.
Birth sign: Not entered
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