ON THE FREEWAY (A poem triggered by a ligne donne): Series

ON THE FREEWAY



It’s time we found the highway,
we seem to be driving in circles,
and the breaking circles are obscured
by the constantly hugging low clouds
that wrap around legs like children
pleading: Don’t go away, don’t go!

The highway sounds close, the hush
has broken into the steady hum
of the scrambling city---we will be
there before sundown, and get on
with put-off plans to ride down
those highways: We cannot go back.

The freeway sounds close,
the shimmering air smells of carbon
burning away the creeping clouds
that have waylaid us on our rush
to get out and not come back
to old houses and blackened ponds
too distant to remember. It is late.


---ALBERT B. CASUGA
Mississauga, 1-25-11



The Given Line (ligne donne triggering the poem)

Low clouds, and the highway—almost inaudible for weeks—sounds close. The air shimmers. I stick an arm out, and white motes dot my sleeve.---Dave Bonta, Morning Porch, 1-25-11 (http://www.morningporch.com/)