Old State Road

A crooked rusty pole

with an ancient green sign

bears the name

as a tired soldier

would bear the standard of home.

 

Gaudy plastic flowers

adorn a plastic cross

in roadside memorial

for some soul, now missed,

who never got there.

 

Late night, I’m driving,

through this hilly country,

fast, reckless, alive

on roads that defy nature

and tempt adrenaline.

 

The deer ignore rude asphalt

as it crudely cuts through

woodlands, farmlands, and hillsides alike

because Old State roughly interrupts

 fields, streams, and forests.

 

Hill, valley, hill…

Tires squeal and my hands shake

as I stop short of a buck

whose eyes lock with mine, before he leaves.

We’re both going home.

Reviews

[Angelic Darkness]

I liked this poem, and the images you created. Reminds me of
my Southern home:).