Drive By Mary Casey

I know what will happen if I keep on driving…

Past the six lane ribbon of crumbling asphalt and onto the exit ramp snaking through the almost blue smog that ends when the six become four, then two, then one.

Onto that one-lane road, tires humming a different song of concrete instead of tar, of roadside shrines with plastic dolls and rows of nodding daffodils, waiting to greet the rear view mirror.

The smell of grass will lead me to turn, fast, through a white fence meant to keep the cows in and me out, but onward I will cruise, over and through fields of hay, rolling along a bed of soft, red mud and sleeping bovines, until I reach the place where I have stopped before but maybe not this time.

That place where the fields end and the scrub begins…

That place where the flat dips down to meet the dunes and eventually the evening blue of the cold Atlantic.

If I keep on driving.

© 2016 Mary Casey

Mary Casey lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and misses the ocean. Her poetry can be found at Pidgeonholes and Everyday Poetry magazines and prose at Everyday Fiction.

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