Apr 3, 2024
Ignoring the screenplay,
flying down the highway —
facing the internal melee.
Out on a breakaway,
in a rush like Hemingway —
drunk on a seaway.
Of all the roads —
of all the routes,
this I cannot transmute
for I am in pursuit
of a roadside tribute.
The photographer’s commute.
Call me tomorrow —
I may be in Scarborough,
perhaps in Hillsboro,
or just past Monroe —
living like Henry David Thoreau.
To roam and ramble, I won’t outgrow,
these four wheels, my chateau —
running across a desert plateau,
out looking for the next tattoo.
January 17, 2024
