My Road
I have been experimenting with the free form again. When I think of experimenting, and even writing that word "experimenting" illicit images come to mind. Drugs, sex, hidden science labs...
It’s unnerving, writing without borders or rhyme. I equate it to saying the word “moist". But mostly, I equate it to pretension. Vulnerability. And well, looking stupid. But, since I enjoy a… let’s say….curated subscriber list. I can quite easily apologize to each and everyone of those people who may inadvertently open Substack to Mary Anderson-Van Luven, and say, “sorry.” I imagine very few would see this poem. And I am very okay with that.
My Road
The 90s were an open road.
I, Barefoot and sticky
Agile from
daily climbs on counters
Headstrong til’
hot cement reminds me to move
And now the aughts_
To dos;
driving the toll bridge
Toll’d of our exports and exploits
Tire marks treading my goings and comings
As a footprint.
I slow creep to throw the last of my change
into a small tray
Before GPS tells me to turn
In case I forget, sorry.
Much much love,
Mary
