On family trips when
I was eight, nine
plastic, primary-color
cowboys, Indians,
soldiers, animals
fought and romped
in a synthetic, nappy,
dark-blue rear-window
battlefield meadow
Other times, it was a
fuzzy ledge on which to
lean, and watch the road
fading, while my mother
half-jokingly admonished
me to turn around, see
where I was going, not
where I had been
But I was a wistful nine.
Then,
sometimes now
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2018
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
Ponderable polemics, poetic 