It’s a legend of moving,
heels of travelers, train soot
or bus grease. There’s a road for
everyone; a language of sound
without hurrying.
Slapping screen doors, caffeine
and gas, diesel smoke and fast down
gears; dirty fingers with a chance to go.
Clock watchers without soul have
no song; it’s a fail of desire,
coffee without cream.
River roads and canyon carving.
Winds with snow on my tail;
cemeteries hold an earth of dreams.
Roger Singer 