Waiting to go home
Till he’s passed out
So I can go to bed and sleep.
If he’s still sitting at the table
When I come home,
He asks a hundred questions
About where I’ve been
(He saw me at a juke joint in Friars Point),
And who’s been with me,
And, what have we been doing
(He knows what kind of whore I am).
In a ’49 Ford, I just keep
Driving miles in the dark
On gravel roads
With woods on either side
Waiting to go home
Till he’s passed out.
Occasionally meeting another waiting soul
Who can’t go home
Till someone’s passed out.
We travel together with laughter
To hide the fear.
We know all the back roads
‘Cause I’m too young to drive
At least by the law;
So it’s crunchy gravel roads
Searching for friends
Who are searching for you.
Every night it’s the same.
Driving, waiting, checking the clock,
Waiting to go home
Till he’s passed out.
Originally begun November 14, 1967, revised March 2, 2007
2 comments:
Share Cropper, this is quite good. Is it autobiographical? Maybe that's a silly question. All poetry is, in one way or another, isn't it?
Share Cropper - This is a very sad form of waiting - one shared by far too many kids. ((((hugs))))
I'm glad words give this waiting an outlet
Thank you for sharing, and participating in the Lenten Carnival!
Post a Comment