Winding streamside along US 64
into the Sangre de Cristos
the sky lined with pine tips
along the mountain's edge
Dust covered, the car
from Bandelier and the High Road
suitcases full of dirty clothes
Two weeks on the road
and ten pounds lighter
with the easy flow of days
under blue Southwest skies
light with altitude and freedom
Jack pulls out his kazoo
and honks an old-timey jazz tune,
Satchmo or something, as we
barrel along side by side
from somewhere we didn't have to go
to somewhere we don't have to be.
(with Jack, age 7)
(1st pub in Tucumcari Literary Review)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem