04-18-2015, 10:07 PM
Car Ride
Today, I wonder if his legs will still
be springs launching him up
into the backseat, or if I will lift
this small sack of bones—
lighter than my smallest child.
His eyes no longer track
the present. He remembers
us, but sees another time.
We will drive somewhere
he will not know
anymore, and enter a room
he will not leave.
His eyes will close,
and open to another place
on this journey.
Today, I wonder if his legs will still
be springs launching him up
into the backseat, or if I will lift
this small sack of bones—
lighter than my smallest child.
His eyes no longer track
the present. He remembers
us, but sees another time.
We will drive somewhere
he will not know
anymore, and enter a room
he will not leave.
His eyes will close,
and open to another place
on this journey.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson