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Poem

Travels on Forgotten Sundays

JD O'Brien

Travels on forgotten Sundays,
A haven for the escape
I manage to see sense and order in irregularities,
Where pieces fall illogically,
Trapped in a jam jar,
Poised with a stare on the air holes
With a dog’s eyes, wide,
In the expectancy of freedom

As we carry on
And ride the scorched highway
To the shimmering horizon,
As the heat of the cabin rises
Look out to the desert,
Cool, like a giant lake of sand
Fuzzy jingles from the cockpit radio
And heated tempers navigate the map

Cars fly by with a speed
More determined than our ceaseless humming,
Carrying those captive children
To where we’ve once been,

There’s no way out from the day trip to another view,
So we measure the speed of the observer.
Our imagination ploughs the distant fields on the hillside
And builds castles for a medieval king,
Runs along the pillars of fences
As they clock up the miles like yardsticks,
Look down to the roadside
And leave with the flashing lines
As we move with the speed of light