Road Trip

Green seascapes bending in time.
Pushing towards the willow wind.
Microscopic wax and wanes.
The interstate offer rescinds.

Locked in place in sheer awe.
Giant behemoth waves his arms.
Driving down the twisty road.
Tooling through the wind farm.

Something oddly out of place.
Freezing the rotating transaxle.
Out of the left corner of my eye.
A fallen roadside space capsule.

The town that was but is no more.
The town that God put asunder.
It’s empty lots and empty streets.
It’s ghosts still weave and wander.

On any given Saturday
We three spy the mother lode.
Travel and traversing.
The spiraling mother road.

Steve Hasting

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