There are a tearfull of towns
driving a deep-seated hide by
at a full five over the posted.
There are a hundred road signs
marking mile bites by countdown,
a series of domino drop downs
(words rhymed by themselves)
thumping cadence with a quease
like sliding over lines on a hairpin.
There are bread baskets of byways
yeasted with such muscle memory
that each wheel dip and light rise
(stressed in a predictable rhythm)
can be mapped across fingertips
in the conducted key of braille.
There are local station call letters
once dialed into range and tune
that will circle back to sad songs
(repeated emphasis on repetition)
best sung along and out the window
to be reflected by the silver rearview.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem