For you,
I'll draw (in color)
a picture of myself
driving my beat-up car.
All through busy
Tiny City streets
traveling…circles
not going very far.
Black zigzag lines
signify
troubling roads.
The yellow tracks
dotted inside, show
where I've been
passed every block (twice) .
Still, my lil-car (color of smoke) runs
cruising…slowly
rearview showing…déjà vu.
Picture me inside
broken-hearted
singing to
sad Spanish songs
(Mexican-ballads) drawn
in broken-notes (blue)
rising from the old radio
(beginning bold)
escaping out open windows
billowing up
(Opacity—fading softly)
into the sky.
My crayola night
in Tiny City ends,
same place
where it begins,
under a
red-orange
gradient sunset.
Behind a red light—stuck
waiting…
hoping to find
that road I've never seen
the one
that makes the world seem…big.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I thoroughly enjoyed this tale. I didn't expect to, but the writer made it interesting. This shows what a good writer can do. I'm not sure about the structure. I would like to have seen a more conventional prose structure, but I can forgive that. Wonderful! GW62