Some days I plod a measured mile
Of graying asphalt road
To keep old arteries from closing
Or force new ones open.
I’d rather not look ahead
To still distant markers
But at the dirty white sideline,
Worn down to randomly regular rounded rectagons
Like jolly elephants on a frieze
Of nursery wallpaper;
Like fat letters of congratulations strung
Across an insurance office;
Like Mayan, which, if I could read
Or believe those who say they can,
Might divert me from my grunts
Or even tell me more about the road.
Bernard Goldhirsch has just come out with a new collection of poems, “The Less Said.” He lives in Springs.