Author Joseph Heywood
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Winter Solstace
[December 21, 1996]

Interstate, artery of wheeled life,
weekend before Christmas,
good day for the license plate game
but no kids, who have teened predictably
to follow their own rhythms.
I crab into Arctic winds among
mariners on macadem, tacking small
points beside drug dealers hauling
roofies and smack, Detroit to Chicago,
round-trip, bearded men with Jesus-eyes,
a college girl with one tiny foot
on the dash, examining her pedicure,
trucks stuffed with Hooker Barbies,
shiny milk-tankers flicker-gliding by,
man in a red parka picking up
a dead black dog, dead bug,
four legs skyward, fresh meat and
all the city shelters full of dog-eaters,
too far to fetch,
doleless schizoids on the unravel,
a Cessna yaws over holly and yews,
down the median at tree-top,
nine deer, a license on a Lexus
beckoning Eat Me, driven by a blue-hair,
this the season of dreams,
snow dust swirling silver,
a red herring, coating frosted
horse apples, I find amusement
every drive to fetch mom.


 
 
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