Copper-colored lightning
bangs against cast iron cloudsFat family caravans
saunter lazily across the lanes

Quickening, sprinkles become drops
Drops become showers
Showers become downpours
And the roadway disappears

Raging 18-wheelers
jockey for positions in a race

Tiny cars like this one
await imminent demise as they cautiously drive

I-94 swings
like a ribbon in my daughter’s hair

Memories intersect
On ramps, off ramps to the past
Lead me to dream of a future
And the roadway disappears

Pulling into town, directions followed
I like a drug runner make the drop and fly away

A long drive to return to things I’ve always know
but will never see the same again.