FOR FIFTY-THREE MINUTES, I WROTE THIS POEM IN MY HEAD

November 20, 2017 / John Grimmett

A long drive
through West Texas
can make your head funny
because the mountains never yield,
never, never change
no matter how many times
you’ve galloped past them
with half a tank of gas
and radio blaring.

Blurry eyes.
Time granulates
like sugar falling through your fingers
which is a weird analogy
but didn’t you and Nana
make snickerdoodles
once in a memory
with shag carpet
and a basset hound?
That’s what I mean,
if you’ll go there.

Blurry eyes.
Time pools
like blood from an open wound
every time you remember
shag carpet
and the basset named Tinka.
That’s what I mean,
if you’ll go there now.

The sun sets on a purple horizon:
blurry eyes only see
a long, uneven line of yesterdays
and — in the rear view mirror —
the dark immeasurable
peppered with a few headlights
and (here’s the part
that’s remarkable)
the eyes of a doe
and her fawn
waiting patiently
several thousand yards back
to cross the highway
once the coast is clear.

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