RUSH HOUR and other short poems

RUSH HOUR

Friday night at the dispensary. 

Boomers wait patiently in line. 

Not one of us is under 50.

3/13

GAME CHANGER

After the storm, potholes bloom 

on the back roads 

like a giant game of Chinese checkers 

where the scoreboard tracks our tires.

3/13

ONE STORM TOO MANY

The ancient patriarchs of the field 

gave up the ghost and sloughed off 

into the earth for that final nap. 

No saplings to replace them.

3/13

BACKROADS

A drunken uncle once said, 

alcoholics know all the back roads. 

Decades later, out of habit, 

we still drive all the back roads, 

our relatives, long since dead. 

3/13