Peoria, Tazewell, And Woodford: Here, There & Everywhere

Old Joy by Mike Foster

 

 

Mike and Jo and Megan

 

 

OLD JOY

 

Old joy leaps in a nerve,

Old joy alive like a Chevrolet

That suddenly starts in deep, dead January.

 

The heater sends up cold dust.

The windows are bleak with ice,

But we suddenly remember and we are moving now.

 

Why do voices lull us from sleep?

Why is this old joy like a car in winter?

 

Chevrolet, turn the highway stripes

Into a spitting white line.

 

White line, blaze beneath us.

 

Old joy, drive us on

As we hurtle toward slow and sleepy death

As if it were Chicago

And we had to be there by dark.

 

–Mike Foster,

12 March, 1975, and 26 January, 2016.

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This entry was posted on January 28, 2016 by in Editor's Post, Life Experiences, Mike Foster, Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , .
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