The Turnaround
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 roadside,
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
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 roadside,
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