When winter’s first snow tongue
licked the highway white,I wasn’t careful.
Instead, I sped up,
checking the time.
Next came Damien Rice.
Around eight, I took the funny,
wrong exit. Out there,
the phone didn’t blink.
No strange service could reach,
and I wondered if some god
was grinning. Maybe,
if I took enough detours,
this slippery trip would never be over.
Maybe I could find you
on the curious way back,
and we could wear our stupid hats.
From the thin road side,
maybe I could see you
walking toward me --
bundled in black,
holding two hot drinks,
raising them up,
sipping the side
of one cup’s stubborn drip,
soon waving me down
at the turnaround.
C.A. MacConnell
