The “truck speed” sign glares
yellow through the rain
as I trace the droplet paths
with my foggy eyes
half-closed in sleep
yet open in misery,
the air blowing cold on my face
as my stomach tries to settle.
We turn the sharp curve
barreling down towards the valley
stuffed with trees
standing tall like socks
shoved into my drawer
and I press my warm head
close against the glass,
longing for a taste of the rain.
Cook’s Forest doesn’t sound pretty,
at least to my small mind,
even as it tries to focus
on my tumultuous stomach
rolling like the hills and curves
that brought the feeling about,
but we pass the cabins,
that I can’t help notice are beautiful.
I’ve determined in my heart
one day, I’d come back here to live
and ride my horse
that isn’t mine yet
to work or the general store we always pass
with its gaudy wooden cowboy
raising his hat and smiling
in a way that isn’t inviting at all.
We pass through here too often,
and the scenery rarely changes
or does so in a way that almost
makes you believe in evolutionary thought
as the moss creeps with hands
joined with the ivy
up the sides of buildings
and the edges of canoes.
Prescriptive Poetry 