Where Are We Snatched in Time

We stopped what we were doing

and went down west.

Outdoors marching among the steel or within

the wooden cities – we prayed escape,

while running to big trucks of green,

two-seater furnace runners

and American steel.

Gone and rid of papers, pushing men aside and

grasping hands for adventure.

Young women with pocketbook poems

and cheap guitars follow.


Laying awake in tunes of voice and

among the feminist

feel good.

Lay Lady Lay, kick off your boots and unroll your


Dispense my prize.

Two hours near and twenty minutes there –

hardly  satisfaction nor tight of tunnel.

Fires yonder, our group and friends.

We played map board strategies

with futures and bought pound

after pound

to continue our

infinite circle puffs.

We still had glitter from wasted LP grinds.

Nobody could have told us different; our band

of Youngs and Jims. Where are we

snatched in time.

We are stolen souls still seeking fires of life.

Hey guy in green and motor head truck grease.

Red haired Anglo wait for me.

Gone. Invisible faces who took

to the road.

2012 Barry Comer

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