Traveling

On family trips when I
was eight, nine
plastic, primary-color
cowboys, Indians,
soldiers, animals
fought and romped
in a synthetic, nappy,
dark-blue rear-window
battlefield meadow

Other times, it was a
fuzzy ledge on which to
lean, and watch the road
fading, while my mother
half-jokingly admonished
me to turn around, see
where I was going, not
where I had been;

but I was a wistful nine.

At times, I still am.

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One thought on “Traveling

  1. slpmartin September 11, 2010 / 7:17 pm

    Enjoyed this look back at your youth….you painted a vivid scene with your words…loved how you ended the poem.

    Like

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