On this derelict highway
No more home made pie
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.
I leave a trail
I follow one
I leave a mark
I seek one
I know my place
Where I am
Where I’ve been
Where I’m going
By the markers
Repaired
Revitalized
Restored
Overhauled
Renewed
Jacked up
Revved up
Supercharged
I love being
In the places
I might only imagine
From a sci-fi author’s words
I love to photograph them
Then tweak the image
To enhance
Their oddity
Walls
Real and perceived
Have two sides
The one I’m on
The one I’m not
It is a rare wall
Which cannot be defeated
Which allows no means
To the other side
How is it possible
There is such glory
In this universe
And how improbable is it
That I am its witness?
Until I look again
And see the beauty
In the dilapidated
The strength
In the distressed
The resilience
In the rusted
Nostalgia
Mixed with quirkiness
Leavened by wit
And insight