Poem on a Turnpike
I started for Columbus, O.
One frosty morn and clear,
To see a man about a house—
A fruitless task, I fear.
The car that stopped to pick me up
Was to the east coast bound,
And so I rode right to New York
Near to Long Island Sound.
I ’phoned the school to break the news,
Then we were on our way.
Although we didn’t drive too fast,
We drove without delay.
The car had witnessed better days—
The clutch, it didn’t work,
The roof was torn, the heater weak—
But still, we reached New York.
He’d started out from Hollywood.
Quite early Wednesday morn,
But still he made New York that night
’though looking rather torn.
By midnight we had made New York,
(Eleven, daylight time)
Two hours more,—then I was home
(I heard a churchbell chime).
I found a bed and slept quite well
Until the hour of nine.
The family were surprised no end,
But still they thought it fine.
I spent a very pleasant day
Just doing nothing much:
A little sport, a symphony
A little talk, and such.
That night I called a lovely girl—
In town we had a date.
’Twas lots of fun, I didn’t mind
It’s being rather late.
Next morning I was off again
Returning back to school.
The wind was blowing something fierce—
I found it rather cool.
I didn’t have my usual luck
And so at eight, or so,
I found myself at Somerset,
Three hundred miles to go.
And as I write this little song
I’ve still no further gone;
The hour of ten is long since past—
Something will come the dawn.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
This post-script as of Tuesday morn
Is just to make it clear
That my good luck returned at last
And in one ride, I’m here.
By Phil Hodge