About

“Along Route 9: An Old Poem”

When bulrush stalks made kings of boys,
the scepter of immortal fame,
prestige and power were second none
along route 9 in sylvan reign
for boys whose dads were young and strong
and never yet had tasted life.

Austere faces, of grief to grief,
along that same long winding street,
haunted me in far off places—
the memory of that bitter cup
must I slowly  learn this place
that once held joy and certainty?

And poised now high above that way,
I hold my soul in callused hands
inspecting this man-making self
propelled by intangible poetry:
a fear of what I may become…

But if I were to offer you
the chance to walk this palpable way
would you quietly surrender your
words, ambitions, apprehensions?
I only ask to take your hand
and walk this long lost way with me
along route 9, where I have been
both young and old (and in between.)