Clearly,
we took a wrong turn.
If
we backtrack, maybe we will find two signposts.
One
that reads: Automatic Weapons.
One
that reads: Automatic Love.
Obviously,
we are not on the road to Automatic Love.
But
we can imagine.
Your
grandmother’s house will be the first home along the way.
Brilliant
white with red shutters. Happy-face
violets in the wind boxes.
Children have set up a lemonade stand under the leafy canopy of a giant oak.
The
sign draws travelers in: “free cookees
with eech glass!”
The
road we missed is not so long, not so punishing,
and
the locals cheerfully wave to uncertain wanderers.
There
are no wrong turns. No potholes.
No
snarling traffic.
Bang,
bang, bang! On the road
to Automatic Love, that’s the tattoo of a small boy playing his tin drum as
he marches off into a field of timothy and foxglove.
--Mitchell Hegman
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