Old Highway 30

I’m driving along on Interstate 80,

         across the rectangular states.

The late-day sun behind me casts a waning glow

         on deserts, mountains, foothills, pasturelands;

the soft luminescence of the scene

         soothes the muscles in my neck

                  made taut by hours at the wheel.

I’m not alone out here.

The ghost of Highway 30 joined me early on:

         a grassy ridge appeared off to my right,

                  slowly blended in beneath the mighty interstate,

                           remained submerged for miles,

         then on a straightaway broke off again,

                  this time drifting northward in a gentle curve.

Every now and then this avatar returns,

         sometimes with surprising boldness,

                  unintimidated by the Eisenhower Juggernaut

                           now in command from sea to shining sea.

At times its insolence is palpable: pavement running parallel,

         sporting remnants of a double yellow line,

                  the only sign of age the grass between its cracks.

My thoughts return to more than forty years ago;

         heading west, the morning sun gave similar illumination.

Highway 30 was my co-conspirator,

         leading me to independence, challenge,

                  all the fearsome pleasures of maturity.

It’s nice to have this old friend with me now

         at sunset on the interstate.

Cardinal

I spent the morning rapt in concert,
Whistling my replies to one red squire
Who simply would not let me leave.
I missed appointments, grew fatigued,
But still that bold, opinionated avian
Retorted every trill I sent his way.

Atop a cottonwood, the branch he thought he owned
Swayed easily in summer’s satin breeze.
Mare’s tails, lacy white, drifted overhead,
The pond between us rippled in the sun,
And standing on the shore, a silent doe
Ignored our repartee and drank in peace.

At noon, for reasons all his own,
My locutor flew off beside his modestly attired mate,
Perhaps to share a private lunch in deeper woods.
I went inside to work and wondered

If he talked her ears off as he had with me.
Quiet then, I felt alone.

Robert Wilkie is a retired businessman, a father of two college students, graduate of Stanford University (where he did not study poetry), and at age 61 a late comer to this field of interest.

ForPoetry