A Poem by Ed Ochester

More new poetry that Big Frank is reading. This one's from Ed Ochester's new book entitled "Unreconstructed". A beautiful poem from beginning to end. The images are evocative, the rhythm somewhat hypnotic. Those windshield wipers . . . and the small lights. I've misplaced the title; so we'll have to use the first line for now.

[We Are All Driving to the House of God]

We are all driving to the house of god

in the dark. Yes, and the long lashes

of my windshield wipers brush the tears

from the curved glass: hush, hush,

deep into this night, and wonderful:

the prudent asleep in their tiny houses,

the sorrow of paperwork limp on their desks

and wonderful the hum and plash of rubber

on the wet roads and the distance

from the sleeping ego, that grackle

with its I, I, I, I.

Not the distance from ,but the traveling to

effortless as the car's glide

down the S-curve outside Appolo

over the rumbly steel waffle of the Kiski bridge

to the small lights of the empty town,

a single figure leaning on a column

at the one hotel. And the rain.
May we only ever be lonely

by choice, driving to a bubble of light

and to sleep, and in the morning

the strong rinsed sun on the floor,

on the table the dark iris

in the consolation of its old vase.

---- Ed Ochester