|
Road TripWe started out at midnightIn a metallic-brown Chevy Nova Whose vinyl seats left diamonds on the backs of our legs. Curled up in a sleeping bag, I kept one eye open While my chain-smoking Dad sped across the state line And Mom tried to sleep in the passenger seat. If I raised my head to look At the tall conifers in silhouette against the midnight blue At the profiles of mountains And tried to see what was behind the blackness, Mom or Dad would tell me to go back to sleep. I start out every morning On foot, now, to the bus stop Leaving diamonds, stripes or wavy lines upon the sidewalk. In my seat, I read And try to see what is behind the blackness of the ink. I think of all the so-called leaders, religious and political, Who have told me to keep my eyes and my mouth shut Who have told me to go back to sleep. I'm not a child anymore. I have both eyes open. I will see what I can see along the way And I won't go back to sleep. -Marisa Wood |