The Road

I, too, would ease my old car to a stop
On the side of some country road
And count the stars or admire a sunset
Or sit quietly through an afternoon….

I’d open the door and go walking
Like James Wright across a meadow,
Where I might touch a pony’s ear and
Break into blossom; or, like Hayden

Carruth, sustained by the sight
Of cows grazing in pastures at night,
I’d stand speechless in the great darkness;
I’d even search on some well-traveled road

Like Phil Levine in this week’s New Yorker,
The poet driving his car to an orchard
Outside the city where, for five dollars,
He fills a basket with goddamned apples.

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The Road