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.




Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all materials on these pages are copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.