His highway 14 is a string of lights
in this fog, and the river is only
just now visible. Back at the manse
he’s stuck in a frame looking
at his books, the neat sets he
never read, and wonders if he
Given his druthers he’d be not in the frame
and not on the road,
but on the terrace overlooking the river,
where no one is rushing around
trying to make, make, make it
before they die.
How’s a stick man to warm his insides?