.
Though when they do
They’re not the same
But when they’re gone
They’re lost forever
An anachronism
A paradox
To a Westerner
Like me
I take a breath, breathing in the magical divinity of existence
When the unimaginable
Becomes reasonable
Imagination soars
But for lack
Of soil and sod
What food
Could riches grow?
Stale cigarettes
And mildew
Saggy mattress
Flickering lights
Time is always active
Always present
Always changing
Only consciousness
Forgets
Or represses
Time is always moving
Cultures move on
People move on
John Steinbeck devoted a full chapter of his epic roadtrip, The Grapes of Wrath, to Route 66. Five words of that chapter — three words, really — captured everyone’s imagination. Three words.
“66 is the mother road,” wrote Steinbeck. Poetry. Evocation.
Pix to Words 