Asphalt Playground

Asphalt Playground

The first lane was the street I grew up on

time to jump on the roof

look up from just before dawn at the house over the garage

and then fall back down to the trees.

lanes I couldn’t see painted but tracked

people live here.

people live over there.

this is my domain.

it was repaved and then so was everything.

that wasn’t my domain anymore.

too many cars

can’t lay in the street like in the pages of a novel

I wrote a lot.

Snow wasn’t as much fun as it should’ve been.

nothing is when you only have one lane.

The second lane came when I met the world

and i couldn’t drive

but I went everywhere

I was on the ends of the earth

to and from.

left and right.

everyone was in me and we were a circle.

big lines on the cracked pavement where only busses drove

and i didn’t want to get on that bus

I couldn’t drive.

separate paint strips into equal pieces

but they aren’t equal.

one always has a better destination

when you have two lanes.

The third lane was

so so so so busy.

I was just trying to find me one

the left turn, the right turn, no turn.

but whichever one turned under

in the big arches under the roads

in a clover pattern, that was where I wanted to be.

the feeling in the pit of my stomach

city streets had more lanes

and it was far away from home, just like I wanted to be.

more exits when you have three lanes.

The fourth lane came when i was already in the wrong lane

switch left

switch right


a permit to drive in those lanes

but so many lanes only hold so many people.

I want to know them

so they don’t know me first.

so many things move so fast

when there began one lane

and now there are four.




The distant pines, too prickly to brush,

the closest breeze that you can touch.

the sun is hot and round and yellow,

the coolest stream so dark and mellow.

Caw! Caw! the crows call, desperately weak;

bugs moths and beetles will soon be their treat.

the wind slashes by, stabbing each tree,

rushing on through, on path to the sea.

the ponds become chilled, the banks become dead,

the clouds are now thirsty, their last raindrops shed.

the kin of the fields have all gone away,

the birds flying south ’til the first dawn of May.

Now as I must go now, friends, remember

this poem I wrote in mid-December…