South by 52

One hundred and forty-two miles
And no goddamn brilliant sunset,
It was all behind a wall of clouds.
It was as if Nick Drake guide us
Along with semis and bold speeders,
Phone calls and this buzzing hum.
52 south and basic open roads,
Here was our fast transporting life
With severe-as-heartache potholes,
Dotted lines and the will to drive;
A truck rolled along where we go.
Past Cannon Falls completely shut out,
Waiting used cars, and descending hills.
Talk thrills in rhetorical expressionism,
Speak of peaceful love coming home.
Grasping what end day commute to
And thinking of where exactly from.
60 through Rochester – someone died;
St. Charles by sister, honking and waving.
I couldn’t tell you of what I didn’t see:
A deep blue outline framed this village
Came into view in a windshield fore,
Familiar sight to see when we stop
Simply the way we had left it before.

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