poetry

Three Axles Or More. {poetry}

My legs, in Joplin, Montana

dig into the deepest night,

bound to a rhythm I love

held tightly by a love I hate

receiving well,

conductor taps

transmitting melodies

each memory of her,

of him and of him,

(of them)

drifting out my open window.

Relay message

in unison voice

reminding me (as usual)

it is easier to dance at 2 a.m.

when goodbyes don’t outweigh

the ache of freedom,

her open door too alluring

for second thought.

Taillights spin, disco rapture,

my hand in her rubber glove,

time is up for contact,

she will take me

where they cannot

from the mundane

into the mundane wild

past Minneapolis,

dinnertime politeness,

fights over the remote

on a beat up couch,

responsibilities of a “good man”

what’s your location?

beyond Madison,

beyond Sunday morning obligations,

niceties of a small town,

with a quick stop in Monroe,

visitors present,

a balm to the soul

dark and bitter to the taste.

Settling easy

beside the Mississippi,

free from reminders

of those not mine

but somehow mine

as much as this

freight sliding left and right

under my ribs

break channel,

the place where it begins to surface

where the “missing them” tangles

up inside my veins.

Responsibility

without responsibility,

whispers compared to

Monday becoming Tuesday

becoming Wednesday,

the static of Joplin

unable to copy

ten years high in the sink

scraping leftovers of my youth

inside the trash, loud reminders

in peeling wallpaper

of repairs to a home

not in my name.

But this,

this sixty feet created

by the tick-tock of

relentless solitude,

mutual anticipation of our tiny fortune

we thumb through chapters

with a clean shot out,

days into pillars of exhaust

swirling about Rockford

only two hundred miles to go.

Yet, she steadies,

ears on and always steady,

a tenacious mistress,

we awake in South Bend,

all units secure

a frantic heave

from our bellies,

US-31 to the end

and finally the beginning

assignment complete,

our golden calf,

away from her I step.

Alone.

Wooden planks, shoes off,

a catwalk unfrozen in July,

Lake Michigan more like

an ocean, dashing against

each cast iron pole beneath me,

greeting me like a panting dog.

I imagine the “them” once more,

here on the pier,

hair matted, filthy with joy,

pulling me to my aching legs

“let’s run,” they beg,

“to the end,”

transmission completed,

stand by.

 

*****

WynnEverett02Wynn Everett lives in Los Angeles. Her poetry has been published in The Curator, Darling Magazine, River Poets Anthology, Wilderness House Literary Review, and she is a regular contributor to Haggard and Halloo in Austin, TX.

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