Poetry Friday - The Collected Works of Susan Ramsey

Collect them all! Someone asked me the other day if these are in a book. No, they are not. *cough* Sure would be a good idea, though. *cough cough*

Tripping
for Vicki

Sugar, we're leaving tonight.

Don't worry about the kids--his guilt will nest them

cozy as goslings until you come home sound.

You can bring them shiny stones and souvenir spoons

and beer cans from Enid, Oklahoma.

But tonight we're gone,

windows all the way down cause we don't care

what happens to our hair, the night trees passing,

their hands clasped over our heads,

music on the radio so sad the headlights swim and blur

and then so hot we shimmy in our seats,

have to stop the car,

get out and stomp until the music ends

too soon.

We'll scorn the interstates, stick to the back roads.

Not outlaws, though--that wakes their posse instinct,

and besides

the hours are long and you have to be willing to travel.

We'll be the underground, we'll infiltrate,

slipping into town with the groundwater.

They'll think we've always been there, past the edge

of town, out by the water, where the porch

has two rockers,

one with, one without arms.

The pillowcases smell of wind and grass, the water's well.

There is no time there--we'll return the night

before we left, no matter how long we stay.

Your job will be

to name that big dog nudging at your hand,

prop your heels on the porch rail, and to watch

the fine pearl silt of happiness float down

into the crater blasted in your heart.

When it is full, we'll go.