A boy in a bright blue hoodie
is on the shoulder of the freeway
apparently walking, though the cars
pass by so quickly, he is only a blue blip
of morse-encoded flesh; not even a whole letter
of stranded dna.
A still-life with backpack, headed who knows where,
with eternity to get there.
Almost gone before he's seen,
a wrinkle of memory never made.
He passes for what's art
on this bric-a-brac highway
of floating food wrappers and broken lighters.
What mourners left behind
in the echoes, of his closing a door?
What sighs of relief, in absence the paranoid paroxysms of delusion?
Sometimes grief is really a circumspect joy
on this telepathic road, of secrets through time.
Discovering not what we are, rather what we could become, perhaps, is times greatest secret yet to be discovered by all of us. Great poem Patti.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great comment by Smoky Hoss, below. Nothing I could have said better. Must agree with him: great poem.