Tuesday, June 28, 2016

Highway 35 revisited

This old highway looks mostly the same
struck with images of another time
this car like my grandpa's car
easing down narrow lanes
looking for something we might never find,
the boat yard were he worked so hard
filled with mast like a forest
the bungalos he build back then
yellowed and tattered from too much when
the fruit stand where we always stopped
closed for the season, maybe forever
the sad face of some broken watch
that tells the time I ache to remember
and still there are things that cling to this place
the roots of a life we still love
the paint disguises a familiar face
which we can never get enough of
I ride this road
it is in my blood
these miles I feel
like an old love
my head hungover
each lost mile
my lips lift
with a saddened smile
Route 35 where I ride
even when I'm barely alive
The beat of it hard in my chest
with every little hill I crest
Route 35 is where I ride
right up to the day I die
How many roads can I recall
how many dreams both big and small
How many things upon this road
this life I live, the life I know

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