by Jerry Garcia
Headlights followed me
like a jet squadron in formation,
four lanes, eight lights
blurring from my exhaustion,
eyes revert from rearview
to red glowing dots ahead,
when darkness came down
like a curtain drawn.
No lampposts, no cars,
like Sister Margaret Mary’s story
about the world’s end.
I became weightless,
a sprite in ocean air.
My vehicle no longer carried me.
I became awash in crashing waves.
The sea was black with white caps.
Was it moonlight or a patrolman’s flashlight?
I might have been floating.
I might have been flying.
You found me in a hospital
“after days,” you said.
I might have been in outer space
attempting inventory of countless stars
or maybe, they were specks of sand
at the bottom of the briny deep.
You didn’t have a clue where I had gone,
but fed the dog and tended to the roses
You could be holding my hand right now.
Or I might be attached to a comet
hurtling through the galaxy,
long before the earth held water
or human touch came to be.
Jerry Garcia is a poet, photographer, and filmmaker from Los Angeles, California. His poetry has been seen in Spillway 28, Wide Awake: Poets of Los Angeles and Beyond, The Chiron Review, Coiled Serpent Anthology, Voices from Leimert Park Redux, and Slipstream. He has published two books of poetry, On Summer Solstice Road and Hitchhiking With the Guilty. His latest book Trumpets in the Sky is forthcoming from Moon Tide Press.