Late Drive Toward Innisfil Poem by Ken Babstock

Late morning we arose and went;
West Gwillimbury,
Wooden Sticks, coats of arms carved
into the overpass,
Maples of Ballantrae, and box stores . . .

a barn wall tagged by the one boy pinned
to the peace on that farm,
an X-Box, culture
in bold colour bleeds into flea markets.
Everyone sweats and crawls north.

This will be our 13th
concession. Purple loosestrife let
loose through Nottawasaga.
New Nevada plates on a purple
Cutlass chewing the scenery.

Patterns are a ruse.
Our dashboard's dark, compartmentalized
life illuminated as the jaw's latch
drops. Little bulb, little bulb over wet naps
and manuals —