Somewhere up Ahead by Paul Bluestein

Driving through the night in this old car,

scratched and dented,

pitted by rusting regrets.

Dim headlights no longer

chase away the darkness.

Worn tires seem to find

every pothole of doubt and loss.

 

Long ago, there was a time

I drove with unfettered confidence,

even recklessness. A breakneck

rush to see, hear, feel

whatever the spinning wheels would bring.

Top down, sun on my face,

money in my pocket.

One hand draped over the wheel,

the other reaching for tomorrow.

 

But these days, I am a careful driver,

reading the signs,

staying between the lines.

Still following the road where it leads

but no longer in such a hurry

to reach the dark city

somewhere up ahead.

Paul Bluestein is a physician (done practicing), a blues musician (still practicing) and a dedicated Scrabble player (yes, ZAX is a word). He lives in Connecticut with his wife and the two dogs who rescued him. When the Poetry Muse calls, he answers, even if it’s during dinner.