(An International Journal of Poetry)
ISSN 2249 –2178
Volume-2 JUNE -2012 Number-1
Rough Grooved Surface
by Martha Modena Vertreace-Doody
Bemis Woods where sunset turns
untarred stone chips into gold
brighter than wild eyes hiding
in thickets off the road under repair. Our car still cold.
The motor slow to warm as red lights
change from sputter to start.
It’s the rough roads that get me started,
ideas that cover my face when you turn
too fast at the off–ramp. Headlights
flicker warnings in showers of gold,
of wind-fed leaves, cold
nights like this one. I hide
behind shut eyes, dreams which hide
waiting for a jump start
shivering under a cold
moon, pockmarked, grooved. You turn
from Salt Creek’s floating golden
ripples of shallow starlight
toward rough pavement, streetlights
pulling night out of hiding
while workers in orange-gold
vests swing lunch boxes, tools, start
the cement mixer turning
its brew into a thick, cold
stew of bits and pieces, cold
cuts gathered off the street.
Miles later, sleet turns
against your will to drive, hiding
behind a chocolate bar you offer. Snow starts
to thicken on the window like a spun gold
Santa, his sack of gold
nuggets freezing in the cold.
Tomorrow Schuykill River will start
to uncloud Philadelphia streets,
no longer hiding
under Billy Penn waving at us. I turn
to cold instant coffee, motel’s finest, then turn
to you, hiding in bed at the start of a movie.
Goldfinger’s Midas touch kills the lights.