You say you want to go into the city to see the lights
and I’m all about that smile, and so I say yes, and we
are on our way with nothing between us but the sway
of the radio’s jazz. I’ve grabbed the map and done the
math and perhaps it’s farther than we should go, but
the gray sky doesn’t care and the gathered clouds show
us the way. There’s a spill of blue and green and orange
where the storm has pooled; we’re not fooled by the neon,
only the twinkled white, the city’s eyes winking that we’ll
be alright so long as we just keep moving. We’re grooving
to the puddled promise, the music-muddled miles. And
the old man on the corner snaps his crooked fingers, smiles.
Written for Poetic Asides.
Sounds fun. That’s your toes up on the dash, right? At least for this poem. . . .