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Christopher Burnett


Mariposa, CA, US

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The return of On The Road


Christopher Burnett

Sunk deep in too soft
Battered sofa
Life now seems a burden
Little more left to say
Even less to do.
Son says Dad this is yours,
Drops On The Road beside me
Its yellow leaves, soft with age,
Attempt to morph back
Into tree.
I sit dumbfounded, old and sweating
In this way cool funky
LA Spanish duplex
Watch helpless my tiny granddaughter
Nurse her motherís swollen breast.
Both still glow with the residual dust
of Elsewhere
Both locked in the Eternal Now.
A voice rises in me,
Not mine but me.
Jack would dig this,
Would see hear feel the
Cosmic Yes!Ness of it
Covering all of us and
The stuff of life that lives
There too with the cats out
Back and the hipster black
Dudes slackín on down the narrow
Heaving sidewalks and the
Weathered grandfathers
Biking along lost
In memory of
Better times
When the heat did not
Try to kill
And the women were
Hungry and soft.
I slowly leaf through
Youthís extravagance
And recall firm muscles
Clear sight
A sense of wonder
A hunger
A thirst
For all thatís life.
Fresh brewed coffee
Sharp cheap whiskey
Switching reefers out
Of Fresno
Watching girls at
Valley malls.
Old Dean
Old Sal
Dead and buried
But in my mind
Just then
The morning heaving
With the promise of
Laughter, good food,
A glass of wine, a babyís
Hand reaching curious fingers
Into my graying beard
They are alive
And turn to any page
To hear them giggle and spit
And fall down laughing
Hear them insist through the
Endless tunnel of time
Itís all good.