afternoon poem, july 15, 2015




Our car was old, even then

V-8; hydra-glide tranny

Fins, sharp and high

The style of its day.


We drove into the mountains

On state highways

Taking switchbacks and hairpins

Up and down the mountainsides


For miles and miles

Nothing but green forest

Then a sign or two

And in the blink of an eye

You’re in the middle

Of some little town.


The mountain towns were still working then

Had their own banks and stores

Before the day of fast-food chains

We ate in the dining room

Of the Pioneer Hotel

With its ten-foot ceilings

Slow turning fans

and cherry wood panels

The harvest of 200 years uninterrupted growth.


The menu was a typed, mimeographed sheet

Paper-clipped to a pasteboard.



Copyright 2015

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