Retreat

Gordon A. Long

Under the steely boughs of the highway bridge I lie,

My head comforted by a sun-warmed tire.

The river trickles merrily, bubbling in gleaming rainbow hues

Of alternating soap and oil.

The road rumbles overhead, whipping its cargoes

Away in their lumbering dance, discarded wisps of smoke trickling

Down to entrap shafts of dusty sunlight in wavering coils.

Here is my place.

Here, I escape the sullen treachery of the alleys,

Here, I avoid the damp depression of my basement room.

Here, I find peace.

Beauty is where you need it.