That dependent duo of car and road
is no historic picture of need and nerve.
If the car could talk
it would say what matters is motion
in times of upheaval, and then spin out
upon the road, the real reason for anything’s being,
adding, as it roars, that the earth, too,
is a wheel and was made to spin.
The road lies low. What else can it do?
If it had memory, it would seep itself
into dirt and dust, relish the time
when gravel was ample, not crushed and stayed
by the load of love.
Even after the road divides and curves and dips
and arches over the sacred water
the car still loves itself
and traffic better, loves how it zooms, weaves
through lanes as if they were waves,
loves how it leaves the road stranded in its infinity.
is a native Oregonian who taught English at Christopher Newport College (now University) of the College of William and Mary in Virginia, where he also founded the college theatre, directing ten plays during the first two seasons. Two of his own plays have been produced at Oregon regional theatres. Among others, San Jose Studies, Blue Unicorn, Able Muse, The Raintown Review, Canary, Poetry Salzburg Review, 2 Bridges Review, and The Same have published his poems, with three forthcoming in the Avatar Review.