This is an evocation of what it means to write poetry in an increasingly unpoetic world.
Sourced from what spring,
Driven by what internal command?
Accompaniment to the depths of the horn,
Announcing the commencement of the act;
Stationed on the stage of solitude,
Soliloquy blundered forth on the planks:
Strut, slump, start, float, address
Lust, intricate guilt and elongated pleas.
Other than lazy rivers of steaming asphalt,
Glaring trains of frozen rock,
Industrious streaming of man-made circuitry,
Expanding into tides of interplanetary scope.
Hand me my cane, my walking stick, my open road,
These unconditioned plays of a wily hand are all that is left.
© ross 2020