As we drive this narrow rough of muted dirt, I might <br />admit – this one time – that you somehow drew me back. <br /> <br />Eyes half-closed, the door swung open <br />to the bare breeze, your feet pressed flat <br />against the heat-soaked dash. <br />You sat in the car singing like a thrush. <br /> <br />Gone as I was, I heard <br />the crackling twang of some lo-fi Lucinda <br />layered beneath the slender current of your voice. <br /> <br />Just within reach of your echoes, <br />I pushed past parched thistles, wrapped in dust and doubt. <br /> <br />Stumbling in the first husks, suddenly I am simply kneeling – <br />toes pressed back, bare knees crushed, <br />everything dry but the nape of my neck. <br /> <br />Your voice rose: following it, <br />I ignored the withering slash, lost in this thicket.<br /><br />John Sarvay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-is-not-a-country-song/
