09 December 2014

Love, Thea Koller

A few months ago, I was skyping with Dad and he read me this poem. He teared up in the middle of it and his voice cracked. Thinking back on that, it falls in place that we are now in the MidWest, and that all of this happened while he was on a road trip with those engines running.

Untitled - 1987

The real world stretches between mountains.
Big rivers run through it.
On summer nights it is lighted by fireflies.
In the real world
small towns are filled with kids eating icecream.
Their moms wear cotton dresses
and talk of the children to come.
(I hear laughter as the sun goes down)
Late at night after the kids are asleep
there is cold apple pie and hot black coffee.
(I smell the gasoline - hear the engines running
engines that never stop
that run from mountains to mountains
out over the flat land
through the dark nights
over the steel big river bridges
through the blinking fireflies)
The real world is one I've carried within me -
forty years gone by and the engines still turn
and the wheels they drive still turn and drive me
and carry me through these summer nights
(I hear the women in their cotton dresses laughing)
and there will never be another world
quite the same.

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