Road

A small pledge to break, scarcely noticeable,
that's what we said, off down one road after
another, fueled up, burning route maps,
in a whirl for sensation, and if there were
any who didn't ache to be iron-limbed,
chill as French poets, we didn't know them.
Holed up in motels, surfing cartoons,
the black dog might be flattened or shot
but always gets up, goes on. Ruthless as
necessary to survive, artists, the friction
between our ways and the world spitting
creative sparks. Such a small pledge,
a knot too snarled to unpick, were we
failures, or falling on the verge of flight?
It had found us, the sound of the shell,
a bright blast calling calling us to live.
We pull out onto the road with its lick
of sunlight, million winking promises.