blue skies poetry

viscous blue winds

drive whitesnakes ‘cross Deerfoot

in front of us and you say:

Sheesh, dude, this

is a cruel day
the heater blows lukewarm

vulcanized rubber fumes

into the cab as the radio plays

stereo Christian Country Classics,

it’s a giddy heady mix,

possibly hallucinatory, you say:

Jesus loves Deerfoot in winter

and whitesnakes forgive

the viscous blue winds 

and I think: Man,

are you breathing this in? 
the wind switches and whips

back across Deerfoot evicting

the angels clinging

to the rooftops of all good trucks,

they back-flap furiously

lest they too be dashed,

along with the whitesnakes,

on to the jagged black teeth

of the wide Stygian median
we leave behind the Cecil

and the Mustard Seed,

and we head North, North

our horizons, such as they are, are

beyond Olds