Eliza Turrill Poetry

If Poetry Was Like Driving

After A.R Ammons

Leaves spiral off a truck

towards your car, and only your car.

You pass castle-like mansions.

Will I ever make it?

You drive past the park,

now crowded with children in their new playground,

complete with an ice cream truck.

It is no longer yours.

You drive

with the hopes of getting lost.

You turn and twist through neighborhoods,

but only to end up on the same road.

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