There are scatters of ghosts
laid out along the ditch-
line as death
rising up to cloud
the break in a mid-march morning;
tires squeal in the distance,
a 45 degree curve and how
the dress of an apparation
covers it in a mock game
of hide-and-seek. An owl
voicing his desire
to find home through
the wet curtain of 4 a.m.
and somewhere, trapped in the heavy
of transitional air, on
a side road half-way between
Trenton and Monroe sits
the deceased image of my goodbye.
...............................
(2nd draft)
There is a scattering of ghosts
laid out along the ditch-
line as death
rising up to cloud
mid-March mornings;
distant squeal of car tires
surprised
at the 45 degree curve
that sneaks up on me every day
on my way in to work, an owl
voicing his desire
to locate home through
the wet curtain of 4 a.m.
and somewhere, trapped
in the heavy of transitional air
on a road half-way between Trenton
and Monroe, is the dissipating
sound of my goodbye.
.................................
The fog is thicker
on March mornings, driving
down a side road half-
way between
Trenton and Monroe;
there is a scattering of ghosts
laid out along the ditch line,
distant squeal of a car
that misjudged the 45
degree curve that catches me
unaware every day,
an owl screaming his desire
to find home
through the wet curtain
of 4 a.m.
and somewhere
trapped in mist of dew-heavy
air is the dissipating
sound of my goodbye
breaking down.
Adding your comment:
lol. You are cute. The poem is excellent and I like the foggy feeling of the whole thing. 
You know me, takes me 20 reads and 2 days to sometimes work myself through a poem enough to make what I think might be a valid comment. I know for me, it would help if you sent me links of things you want my type of ad nauseum critical commenting on. 
