Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classics (2000-2011)
| HOME | FICTION | POETRY | SQUID | RANTS | archive | masthead |
Poetry #107
(published November 7, 2002)
by David-Matthew Barnes

Not your dog or your sister
Or the sun beam
Gleaming in your eye,
I am just your passenger
On Highway Five.
It is summer.
My heart is shot.
We pass Zamora.
We are almost there,
Your hometown.
I cannot wait
To see who you are.
To pass the time
We laugh, we play
The alphabet game.
I kiss your lips
I think of pomegranates,
Find a song on the radio.
We sing until we reach the edge
Of a town you left and
Cruise into the center
Of a place that you have become.
Like a map,
You fold your hand into mine.
To make it matter
I whisper,
"Welcome home"
And I check the glove compartment
To make certain that the gun
Is still there.

Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece

see other pieces by this author

Poor Mojo's Tip Jar:

The Next Poetry piece (from Issue #108):

Patagonia Transcript
by Cara Jeanne Spindler

The Last few Poetry pieces (from Issues #106 thru #102):

A Lobster is a Tree
by G. Chartrand and L. Lesniak

A Wounded Deer Leaps Highest
by Emily Dickinson

by Marcy Jarvis

by Martin Rutley

My War with the Robins
by Barry Blumenfeld

Poetry Archives

Contact Us

Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson

More Copyright Info