The Road

On hot asphalt
steamrolled flat
one pries up a corner
peels it from tar.

Better than teflon!
no mark
no grit, no dirt.

One finds the armholes,
slips it on:
weightless!

One forgets
the soul as it seeps
by degrees

to the marrow
which forms the tree
with every limb

unfolding its fruit
and then
one lays it
on the road again.

© Dan Goorevitch