95

So here's a poem that got posted earlier, but which has been completely re-worked. This is another of the poems which came out of this semester's poetry class. Fairly sums up how I feel about Connecticut most days.
So, 95:

I.
These days, I’m too familiar with the blazing track of
a summer sun on my face,
setting over this asphalt welcome-mat --
Interstate Ninety-Five, roaring north.
This state makes my blood roil.
The setting orange light
flares between the lost trees
and dark forests. The grey lanes
fly to the horizon, and all I can think
is how close I am to losing myself again.
Kept inside this rotted tree,
I am sick of scrabbling for cracked open acorns -
fallen crabapples.
Driving as fast as I can,
all of the pretty Connecticut girls are going north,
wrapped in sunglasses,
passing me by.

II.

Ninety Five, into the harsh spawning sun
glaring on westernmost Connecticut,
Ninety Five down the dagger bright strips of asphalt
crossing through the strange no-man’s land
of almost ordered forests -
The four miles where nature seems to hold her breath
and huge dawn arcs above -
Ninety Five quivering on the speedometer as I’m banging
sleep-numbed fingers against the steering wheel,
grimacing my way through a song,
Ninety Five down Ninety Five, ripping across a road that’s never meant
anything to anyone.

III.

These days, writing myself dry in the dark mornings,
I am finding my way clear of
the stench of déjà vu.
Breathing heavily to empty lungs,
All of the air I’m holding
spins out to stop and slow,
harden into concrete.
These days, lifting and carrying,
straining with all I have,
I’m building up again.
Finished with living in the rubble of a home.
Finished picking through debris and
calling it justified.
Kept between and around each slow beam of sunlight,

I am running south.