Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Mother Road
The remnants of the Mother Road
head out of Chicago toward Lake Michigan
A patchwork quilt now held together
by nostalgia and by-pass detours
in the shadow of the Interstate highway
Go west young man, indeed
Who get's their kicks in the well worn grooves
That inspired Steinbeck and Jack's seminal road trip?
Well thumbed titles sticking out of the back pocket of hitchhiker jeans
Black and white images of Corvettes from TVs golden age
inspired another generation
who lost their way and found their soul
Talking cars teach history to toddlers
in darkened theater sequels and DVD coupons for toys
Grandparents motor coaches catch a glimmer of the summer sun
buying souvenir signs posing by relics and balls of twine
The biggest, the best, the oldest of whatever
all marked neatly on a folded map with a paperclipped itinerary
Of blown tires in Joliet that came with the break of dawn
Where a slithering off-ramp snake wake-up call for gas
at Jumpin' Jimmy's Crossroads Pitstop
Gives pause to reach for a pen
For this is still the Mother Road
for each who wanders her way.
Labels:
Mark Butkus,
Mother Road,
ode,
poem,
Route 66
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GREAT poem. The road means many things to many people and some get to share that feeling with the rest of us.
ReplyDeleteYou might want to add some music and turn this into a song.
Thanks for sharing this.
Jim Conkle, a ROADIE.
Jim,
DeleteNow I understand what you mean when you describe yourself as a roadie. You too have felt the lure of the Mother Road. I enjoyed checking out your Route 66 site and feel free to set the poem to music. I myself am tone deaf.
Cheers,
Mark
Wonderful...this really fits the prompt over at http://dversepoets.com/ that I hosted for that poetry community yesterday on setting and place. I'd love to invite you to link it. Victoria
ReplyDeleteThanks for the kind words and link to dVerse, Victoria. It's been a while since I've bellied up to the bar. There is always some great poetry to be found at dVerse and your prompt this week does match the nature of this poem.
DeleteCheers,
Mark