by Christopher Raley


Once long ago we were at a party

in a bar on a lake, and the mountains

were black in the dark of the tall windows.

Distant headlights drew a diagonal line.


I was in two parts, not drinking in either:

the one, my wife, who said nothing; the other,

the people in the company I worked for

who laughed and shouted awarding the year.


It was December.  Hard freeze would settle.

We would dry flooded homes for weeks to come.

But later, much later, it seemed to me

this was the picture that night in the bar:


From frame to frame distant trucks hauled their loads

and lights shone fleeting sight of the unseen road.


This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s