Another "road poem"

[JacobPike]

For those who've read my other poems here, this was "written" to the girl in "Almost a Love Song." This would have taken place about a month later.

Coming Home

There's a statue of a caveman
on the town square at Grant's Pass.
(I wish you were here to laugh at it with me.)
My motel room was directly over
ventilation pumps. The floor
vibrated all night long.
At least I wasn't sleeping in my car,
as I did last night and the night before.
And blessed green surrounds me, after weeks of L.A. smog
and endless dusty plains of San Joaquin.

I got a call from Cathy. She'll be back,
at last, to pick up all her things
a week from now. And, yes,
he'll be with her as well.
I just don't know how I can
handle that. But what choice do I have?
It's but another blow I never dreamed
I'd feel. I must admit
I've gotten rather used to them by now.

The river valley's steep, and dusk comes early
even with bright sky above. The radio plays
an Irish tale of love lost
and remembered. I join in the song
as far-off towns pass by my wheels,
where distant yellow windows speak
of sabbath rest to come. I am
the only one upon this highway
scuttling, winding up the hillside,
even as I am alone
on this night journey of my life.

And did you get my letter? In the early morning,
seeking final words, my pen had hesitated
for what seemed like hours,
before it dipped
to gently touch the paper with "I love you."
Did you assume I wrote it,
in accordance with the terms that bind us,
meaning "as a friend" and nothing more?
Or did you misunderstand - and comprehend me
all too well?

My journey takes me "home" - but to a home
now strange to me,
the life I'd planned for
shattered beyond hope. My past is left behind,
my future dark as finely-fallen August night.
Whatever time may bring for us, you are the one light
there to draw me onward, northward
on this twisting road.
And I will keep to this,
my shadowed, sorrowed, hopeful course.
Coming home to uncertainty.
Coming home to newness.
Coming home
to you.

June 27, 2005

[superconnected]

1. beautiful!

[pinerow]

2. As I've said before...lost and unrequited loves

are grist for the poets mill...keep it up!!