Random Rides ©by Frank Coughlin april 2011
Winter wings, things that cover
A long ride to nowhere and back
Periods of black, just a tunnel or two
Lavender dust spread out in the field
as far as you want it to be, or not to be
She never said "It will be easy."
You only thought you heard it.
The mind plays tricks on long boring rides
Signs of mystery dot the road
like 'Eat at Joe's' - I think 'and then what'
Cold collects on the glass, part you
from your impatient breath, part wind
blasting at seventy miles per, at least
farm houses wave their foolishness
right in front of your blurring eyes
Six hours, she said, seems like more
Is there candy? no, not till we get there
Does she live in the woods and
is her house made out of gingerbread?
No, we are too old to believe that.
And somewhere, in the back seat maybe
Billy pulls out a time machine, set for future
Twenty years flash forward, another car
another time, same us - 'cept we're not the same
too many miles, too many boring miles are to blame.