Brown

Forty years ago the roads
around here were dust over dirt.
In two thousands two lanes are passable.
One for driving slow.
Another for ditching.

Front to back, east to westerly
winds flap the flags and drool.
Some small drops fall off brows,
down cans of Lager and dribble
long droppings to ground below
sport utility or flexi muscled vehicles
needed for life,
or some such thing.

A driver, no loyalist, skirts the meadows.
He is GPS enhanced and groomed for encounter
in ways his otherwise occupied bride
will never know.

If I had met him I would have asked what are
the convex dimples of your floor named?
(we'd stand in my yard, it is freshly mowed, his engine
continues to run}
Is it the Diamond Pattern?

The secret of transport is alive in his brownness, his shorts.
Another dot to dot matrix.
"in sleet and slush such no snooze nor sentiment will sustain this
delivery more than the smile that one may never witness."

All this for just a wrap of poems that
press face to face in the dark till liberated,
spread for reading and looking at each other.
A morsel of art in word. Simple thought,
soft affection from a friend up the dusty road.

Brown returns down his route unpaved
by thought.
What if words caught sight
of each other?