Heading Off Road

[BobBradshaw]

Heading Off Road


    Another week wasted with minimum wage work,
    feeling like an outsider--
    like a porta potty in a rich neighborhood.

    I'm happiest
    on a Friday afternoon, singing and drumming
    on my steering wheel,
    Marley and the Wailers jammin' in the back.
   
    I head off road, through fields of poppies,
    or maybe a field of goldenrod,
    the flowers stretching forever
    like fans at an outdoor rock concert.
 
    I get out of the car and lie for hours
    on a slope till evening
    tiptoes in, like a teenager
    sneaking in after curfew.

    I listen to the ticking cedars, 
    and to a flit of tiny wings, a beetle rising
    from a jungle of grass. 

    Escape is temporary,
    like the peace savored in a yoga session
    while ignoring the obvious:

    my night's commute, traffic outside
    backed up like dying salmon in a creek.
      
    Even here there are reminders
    of what's to come, the sky's
    emptiness partially concealed with stars
    as far as the eye can see,
   
    like the trash to be picked up 
    after a New Year's Eve party
    in Bel Air.

[FranktheFrank]

Nice poem seemingly plucked out of the air.
I don't doubt the hard work put into this, Bob.
We would say over here: 'Porta-loo'.
A poem ripe with similes and metaphors
original and picture-framing for the reader.
Enjoyed, well done. It's early but to me
a candidate for the IBPC this month,
I accordingly nominate.
By the way, I have done this in the past
driven to a remote mountain top
and stayed with just the wind, the
smell of the heather and the trill of the larks.

[BobBradshaw]

Thanks, Frank. Sounds like your mountain drive was delightful.

[Kenneth2816]

Real

[BobBradshaw]

Real?