End of the Day

Today's poem is about a bit of "ancient history."

Written well after the fact, it's a recounting of a time when I traveled much more than I do now, a time before interstate highways began crisscrossing our country, when passenger trains were still in abundance.

It was sometimes faster, or "more convenient," to travel by car. Oh, how I recall trying to think of that convenience as I fell into bed somewhere along the way and tried to get a few hours' sleep before pressing on.

Ah, those were the days.

But for now, the poem:

END OF THE DAY

The ceiling grows vague

and cold, its tiles swirling

like snowflakes toward me,

and I taste them, melting,

the bed sways under me

as though bearing me away

to some strange place, my eyes

close, and I see highway,

an undulating ribbon whirring

toward me, narrow out there,

broadening here where it gains

speed, goes threading beneath

my car, as it has all day,

dull pewter funnel pulling

me in, pouring me out here

where I lie on a strange bed

in a cheap motel, thinking

of the events bringing me

here, thoughts drifting

like the slow, curling smoke

in a room suddenly empty,

being pulled toward the ache

and soreness of tomorrow,

not caring, not caring at all.

© 2000

(originally published in Waterways; now part of a manuscript, Wood Smoke, slated for publication later this year by Finishing Line Press)

***

Today's word: fatigue

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Thanks for that observation about passenger trains, Featheredpines. They were very much a part of my young life ... since we didn't have a car ... there were "locals" which carried passengers from one town to the next ... and trains were still around when I was in military service. I miss them, too.