As you leave Detroit,
with it’s decaying motels, get drunk shack bars, and appliance stores,
turns into the gentler Highway 24.
With the scars behind you,
far away from the sprawl,
the farm towns appear.
Tidy houses overseeing,
a mature tree,
The paint is worn,
there are no signs of recent investment,
But the roads still host travelers.
These farms were the backdrop,
to many of my own drives,
on my way to or from college,
with a happy, pretty, and so young woman waiting to hug me after I parked.
Highway 24 shines in the summer,
the Ohio state crews,
mowing the median and patching the damage their salt brought the winter before.
The passageway is dry, hot and simple,
hopeful arrivals dot the exits.
I’ve left for the places that TV endorses,
but those Ohio and Indiana and Michigan roads used to offer me so much.
Lovers and family and true vacations.
Better things than the roads I now drive,
in my now “better” places.
As I sit here today,
it seems my task,
is to once again view those familiar paths,
as good enough.