The Journey
by Denis O'Neill


We still speak of Jamie Jean,
a singer in a bar as alluring
as a twenty-inch rainbow.
And Hope and Gwen,
who came to Fran's home one night,
and later, after dinner,
and a hot tub under
pussy willow buds,
returned to tell us of
Northern Lights a mile down
Bear Canyon Road,
shimmering in a notch
in the mountain,
dancing like gauzy, summer dresses,
coral and chartreuse.
We watched them from the bed
of Hope's pickup truck,
wrapped in sleeping bags,
drinking what was left of dinner's wine,
happy to be who we were:
a smaller part of a bigger picture,
parked that night
in a scenic turnout
on the journey we have embraced
Hope, raised on a ranch,
could open a beer bottle
in the crook of her bare arm.
(Love's arrow unleashed
from a most unexpected place).


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