US-74 W

US-74 W

Whirling dervish, I spiral

across the Appalachians.

Car revs over mountain bulk.

I negotiate the hulking shoulders

with a determined squeal, blasting

shameless into the gulping night

while some dusk-driven Reverend

screams from the dash, AM 720;

his voice stretches high, intoxicating

as the bends I hug, ducking

slickly between lanes. Speedome­­ter

needle crawls past seventy—

jaw set, teeth clenched.

The murky arrival of evening,

cold beckon of swollen hills,

this inkwell of isolated road—

a damning myriad of prospects.

Swerving toward the garbled

screech of the preacher: Keep

your hands on the wheel; for

God’s sake, keep your eyes

on the road.


2 thoughts on “US-74 W

  1. Another fine upstate ‘ink-well’ evening’s greetings, dear fellow poet…
    (or is it poetess?)

    Nice work, I gotta good devilish chuckle out of it! Your dark satirist vision is much appreciated, especially the ‘immortal’ words of ‘immorality’ of “Mr. Mojo Risin'” as punch-line! I like the ironic delivery of the lines woven in there. This piece is very well seen and you’ve an excellent mastery of fine vision for picturesque adjectives. Rock on.

    Cheers, WordPress mate!
    & Thanks for your interest in my ‘Wordsworth’ as well.

    ~ J. Catte
    k.a. ‘Lord Caldwell’

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