Road Poem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Tom Pescatore

Road Poem

By Tom Pescatore

There ’ s paint slapped onto my sky, thick like an impression on my aching—scratch ink into leather bound sketch journal one long poem out of love, want to take road poem and turn that into novella that’ s effortlessly sad but beautiful and bring back those days roaring through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois—breakfast, sausage gravy—bat factory—beer— Dave and Joe up front and me studying maps in the back, shouting directions—no GPS bullshit, horseshit—doing it ourselves, it’ s been three months—three million years, the crops are shriveled junk melted down and shot into our arms, the city is torn down about my knees—I’ ve nothing left but survival and words

Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia, he is an active member of the growing underground arts scene within the city and hopes to spread the word on Philadelphia ’ s new poets. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot.com. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he ’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia ’ s old Skid Row. mouth are turning down, but somehow it’ s a smile anyway.

You looked at me as if I were the Pacific Ocean or a newborn baby or the goddamned pyramids in Egypt.

“You ’ re such a pretty girl, ” you said. Like you could hardly believe it. Like you were somehow proud and thankful all at once to God and me and refrigerator lights.

I stood up straight to meet your eyes. And suddenly, I wasn ’t hungry anymore.

Kelly George is a doctoral candidate at the School of Communications and Theater at Temple University. She is now married to the man who appeared unexpectedly to watch as she rummaged, nude, through his refrigerator.

TheSandy Crimmins

National Prize for Poetry