I-70

 I wrote this about my trip from Colorado Spring to Fort Wayne in 1985. It seems an apt metaphor today for turning 70.

I-70

Chasing Kansas twisters, I interrupt

The moon floating above a thunderhead,

God pondering his coffee cup.

The locust lullaby in the trees

Is a song to stars, or to the dead:

Fireflies flash where I cannot see.

Above the hood, the shuffling storm

Is a man on his knees, fist shaking,

Roaring for his shattered arm.

Behind, the sky is empty and clear.

The earth recedes quickly, quivering:

Ground heat cracks the icy air.

I-70

#8

Chasing Kansas twisters, I interrupt
The moon floating above a thunderhead,
God pondering his coffee cup.
The locust lullaby in the trees
Is a song to stars, or to the dead:
Fireflies die where I cannot see.
Above the hood, the shuffling storm
Is a man on his knees, slobbering,
Roaring for his severed arm.
Behind, the sky is empty and clear.
The earth recedes quickly, quivering:
Ground heat cracks the icy air.
The radio reports a sighting—
Funnels by flash of lightning.