PUNK POETRY: RIDING STATE HIGHWAY 351 by Daniel Bliss

Never understood how you got addicted

to the sunset, when there was a side

of family waiting in Mattituck,

promised beach home not far

from Manhattan on clear days.

 

Bliss roots rested in Oklahoma

carried from Maine at the end

of pistol smoke fired in Texas

across the Red River into territory

before the sooners and oil.

 

You could see beyond the miles

of car dealerships and neon signs

of fast-food chains into the scarlet

of Muskogee, a town someone had

to be trapped in or love to stay.

 

Driving in hellish summer highway heat

on a Chevy’s bench seat, you never

shared your young man stories,

glory come and gone, held in

the stone of a West Point ring.

 

I would’ve been too young to understand

the context of war, demands of service,

body betrayed you before I had a chance

to age, the command in your voice,

no longer navigating the world. 

--Daniel Bliss