Patches along the Road

He remembers auburn hair,
like the color flickering before him
along Hwy 261.

Thoughts of yesterday
fill his mind —
on his journeys.

Roan Mountain fades
as he steadies the wheel
along a stream of white hyphens.

Flashes of her
blend into the mountains
and trees, when he travels.

Their daughter has ringlets
bright as the autumn patches
among the forest display.

He dwells on her
and their daughter —
when he’s driving.

Rear view mirror reflects
his creased forehead
like his mother grew from her worries.

Travel grants him time —
to think of them.

“Mistakes were made.”
A cop-out rests in that thought:
he made mistakes.

He broods
when he’s in the driver’s seat.