On long family trips when I was
six, seven, eight, nine – cowboys,
Indians, soldiers and animals
romped in a nappy, synthetic
dark-blue rear-window meadow

other times, that Plymouth field
was simply a ledge on which to
fold arms, place chin, lean on

watching the highway behind us
fade to black while my mother
half-jokingly admonished me to
“Turn around – see where you’re
going, not where you’ve been.”

But I was a pensive-traveler child

At times I still am.


One thought on “Traveling

  1. slpmartin July 14, 2011 / 8:48 am

    Ah…this brought back some fond memories for me…very delightful poem.


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