I suppose it’s best to
speak of her now;
her name only summons
ghosts and thoughts
of a woman long past.

Her name is like hands that
trace the globe of my mind
from the my brain—a small city,
public university, museums, a relic
of a war dividing country—

to her heart—a large city, the
rainiest in the country, or so they say
where we mutually met in the middle;
it was love, or at fifteen springs, I thought.

This map to her now only summons
ghosts and thoughts
of a woman long past.

I follow them through
the thruways of memories
of all she touched with her
human condition and hope that
the map leads me back to her.

It leads me to our
phone calls, where I’d sit on
the deck in just pants and drink
and she’d stand outside on her balcony
and we’d burn the mental incense of a dream
forever never coming to pass.

I suppose it’s best to
speak of her now;
her name only summons
ghosts and thoughts
of a woman long past.

The ghosts of long-lost
proclamations of love
haunt my mind.  It’s
easier for me to believe
that she never did mean it,
but at three in the morning,
I’m fond of sitting on the deck and drinking

And I burn the mental incense of a dream
never coming to pass.
And I confess none of this
as she is a ghost with only a map
but my fair Rachael, she haunts me.

It’s no longer safe
to speak her name;
it’s summoned ghosts
and thoughts
of a woman long past.

Rumble strips and road trips
Drive until I catch the night
Right shoulder tears for all my fears
Thruways admit I lost the fight.

An eye for an eye
Left turn for left turn
GPSs always lie
A truth for a truth
Reroute our directions but we'll
Never regain our wasted youth.

Now again I'm drifting off
The road signs mean I'm never lost
But the rumble strip will always grind
Until I forget what I drove to find.

Highway markers flashing by
In tired hate I wonder why
Until the sun must also rise
This painful day will be reprised.

Hands off the wheel, forget to blink
This desolate night is not what you think
A split second glance in my rearview
Confirms what I already knew
For though my stance to run was wrong
There's no denying you were in the back seat all along.

Swallowed by the night

Another world awaits
Between the dusk and dawn
The threshold of anticipation
Fears , and fairy tales
Have taken abode
Shadows hide in plain sight
The skies blossom with blinking eyes
Hopes for a romance
Under the stars
Hunters walk
And on the prowl
Midnight canvas flowing
Thruways lined with pillows
Taking sleeping minds
off into their dreams
The moon casts a silver shadow
Bathed in blackness
Dried off from the sun
Another world
Another Realm
Another universe
Just beyond apollos ride
Prerequisite
to the roosters calling
Adolescents intimation
To a grownups anticipation
Its as if the sea were to engulf
The terra  
But only for a time
The owl shrieks
The daytime sleeps
As we get swallowed
by the night

Up with the sun, his mind razor-keen,
he hikes up his trousers and starts his machine.
Though barrels of funk feed their reek to the dawn,
he pays them no heed; the trashman rolls on.
Up alleys, down thruways, past storefronts and stands,
he guides his behemoth with rock-steady hands.
Though big rigs and small fry speed hither and yon,
he sticks to his creed; the trashman rolls on.
Down **** to Impostor, past each stinking bin,
he makes for the junkies and merchants of sin.
Though winos raise eyelids, though punks point and grin,
he straightens his shoulders and thrusts forth his chin.
******* and derelicts lurch from their sties.
Pimps and their harlots flash Jacksons and strut.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a pickpocket cries,
“What are you, buddy, some kinda nut?”
With hands on the levers, and brightly lit eyes,
The big driver leans out and coolly replies:
“No, sir. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the muck.
The gears maul the lowlifes, the fork rocks the truck.
Though hollers and screams shake his steel mastodon,
he longs to proceed; the trashman rolls on.
The truck passes perverts, creeps churned in its bile,
up Felon to Pusher, down Vicious to Vile,
where block upon block, where mile upon mile,
the hookers regale him with smile upon smile.
Near-naked floozies exhibit their wares.
But this man just glares while they trumpet in pique.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a drunk strumpet cries,
“What are you, mister, some kinda freak?”
His hands on the levers, with brightly lit eyes,
the big driver leans out and gently replies:
“No, ma’am. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the slime.
The gears maul the contents to streetwalker chyme.
Though hollers and screams are distressing and drawn,
his heart fails to bleed; the trashman rolls on.
Pining for virtue, he clatters along,
up Bully to Bigot, down Trollop to Spawn,
past Conman and Cutthroat to Thirteenth and Greed.
He steadies, caresses, and readies his steed. Virtue, indeed.
The trashman rolls on.



Okay. NOW CUT AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com