By John Grey
It’s late summer and we take the car for a spin
down a road that’s new to us,
one that flattens and extends through woodlands
as, in flickering light, the conversation
goes for miles, cruising mostly,
with the occasional, “I wonder what’s
at the other end of this.”
The way bends, horizon changes angles,
and pines and fir trees stand present-arms straight,
yet constantly switch their shadows around.
Then we reach a crossroads and all
is suddenly serious, as we drop the idle banter.
I drive. You resume your navigator role.
Small lines on a map are now real places,
choices with repercussions, even if that only means
backtracking for a mile or two.
Farms come upon us.
Then people in fields.
And, finally, towns.
We scout out a general store,
drink coffee, share a bagel,
in fading afternoon sun,
hemmed in by locals.
We’re among people we’ve never seen before
and in a village we’ve never been.
So much subject matter at our disposal,
it deserves something deeper
than small talk.
Not as deep as love perhaps.
But good deep.
We’re-all-in-this-together deep.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. His latest books, “Covert,” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. He has work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.
