The Vein of America

I’ve breathed the 68 dust
of this Albuquerque motel,
stared down the worm
at a bar in Amarillo.

I watched a local die
on a stretch outside of Tulsa,
all on Route 66,
the righteous road,
the tortured vein of America.

I caught it from Springfield,
and rode it to Flagstaff.
Pastels and broken neon,
whitewalls and garish Plymouth Fury fins,
Song to a Seagull and Tiparillos.

I read Rosemary’s Baby
Hey Jude filled the air,
“Old Friends
sat on their park bench like book ends,
Winter companions”…
riding the last of their light
on this cracked iconic road.

“How terribly strange to be 70…
Time it was and what a time it was”
Museums now.
Nostalgia boxed and exploited
listed on eBay and sold.
“Its not the 50’s dude,
we have to swing on the altar
of your heart and your wallet.”

At the Redtop
on a chromed red leather stool
- a cup of Joe and a Chesterfield.
At the MidPoint Cafe,
the worlds best strawberry rhubarb pie
- on the Mother Road,
the vein of America.