My Argument with Thomas Wolfe
Perhaps you can.
But hurry. Before dusk
grays your vision as your hair.
Before the asphalt buckles
with the weight of tomorrow.
Grab a Greyhound, man.
See America again.
Even if it’s from
the worn and tired
seats at the back of the bus,
stale with the smell
of a million miles.
Just don’t be surprised
when no one greets you.
The years treat memories that way.
You’ll need to root around a bit
to find the ones that still say home.
A great poem, Steve.
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Thanks Sarah
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Yes, I remember this poem ! It seems much better than I recall. “Before dusk grays your vision as your hair.” “the smell of a million miles.” “root around a bit to find the ones that still say home. ” !! great lines !! Thanks for sharing !
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Thanks, Teresa.
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EVEN BETTER !
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And, again.
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