Posted: November 5, 2013 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Among the daily rush and tumult

of cars that clatter like distant trains,

I remember, clearly,

that stretch of asphalt leading into the city:

Gray as stone the road grows

into the land of skyscrapers.

It isn’t Detroit, Chicago, Hollywood, or New York,

but it is not terribly small or unknown.

The hazy gray freeway

rushes past like wind

from behind the car window.

There is the gateway to one possible future.

The entrance ramps align, flat as anvils,

forming a solid horizon.

Here is the city I have come to know as my grandparents’.

We even have our own little square.

I see the spotlight that calls to me.

Perhaps I will start here,

my family has already branded our influence on this city.

The road lies ahead like a dead tree

buzzing and humming

from the swarm of cars.

The ramp is one short pathway

into a possible life, a possible home,

a possibility that I reach toward like a star.

The winding stretch of road

curves me toward a blue glass city

where I may engrave my name,

where I might secure a future.


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