Sorting through a pile of old papers, I came across two poems that I wrote nearly 50 years ago. The ideas for these poems probably germinated while I was stuck in traffic. That they were inspired on the road takes on an ironic nature for at the time, my life had taken a turn off course. At that time, I had only a general sense of the direction in which I headed.
Homage at Rush Hour
A hand moves back and forth in unsung rhythm.
Weight shifts, relieving knots that rise
From legs and spine to choke
A reach for the touch of cold, bright coins.
Ritual complete, the bell sounds,
A waft of hot exhaust,
The only accolade made, the bridge-priest.
Along the Turnpike
Green hunch backs,
On the gutted,d rutted,
Once plain banks of the crusted,
Of a double decimated