Wet Paint Road

We had no plans and began to drive

Into the small town that had tried to hide

 

From a paper map, hung on the wall

it would seem to be fields that only stretch on

 

But in the car with him, driving with our eyes closed,

Each road was an opportunity with memories enclosed.

 

Sometimes he’d point out things to me

Things like fields, things like trees.

 

Things like a house holding a silent pose. Or a trailhead that nobody knows where it goes.

 

It wasn’t until that the words left his lips

That the things that sat outside were harder to miss.

 

The emptiness turned into life.

His stories were music that made it dance in the night.

 

The sides of the road turned into wet paint.

The colors were no longer so faint.

 

His words a brush

and we were in no rush.

 

While we drove around trees, I dove into his life.

My prediction of him was far from right.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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