Headlights of Early Spring
The adrift appears to be missing from your days.
Too settled with expectations of sunlight,
drunken phone calls from some other trail
you might have once ridden wild on.
The adrift met its dusk and now you watch
headlights at night through snow, sleet, rain.
Where heavy hours go black like a TV
in a power outage, perhaps someone
is scurrying about with a handful
of postcards printed on buffalo hides...
someone who has pots overflowing
with rain off a tin roof.
You send out your own postcards,
babble about the quality of frozen strawberries,
the shadows of musky girls, the hound's ambition
to become a cavity-filler like Doc Holliday.
You sign your name with boiled-down
raspberries... precious, rare ink
you won't find in the pens of bankers.
How to get your adrift back?
Pamphlet ads on steel farm structures
arrive and don't offer answers.
Deer run through the farmyard at night,
leave no clues. Cattle knock on the door
with short horns and stare in bovine sympathy.
No matter what you look at these days,
all you see are headlights approaching...
headlights on blacktop... going elsewhere.