Along U.S. 31 in the blast of a summer mid-morning
I'm cockpitted with a rock tape and AC
And suddenly joined on the dirt road rightward
By one of the wheeled black boxes of the Amish -
The sleek horse pounding, wood spokes a blur
Big brother wielding the reins like a Corvette jockey
For the pigtailed girl in a mint green dress who squeals
As though hers were the first excitement
His the world's only manly skill . . .
I'm easing past 60, the parallel can't last
Their frenzy fades to tableau, to outline, to nothing
And a million sullen asphalt miles farther down
Will blindside me again and again
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.