Lowell Jaeger

A Salesman’s Song

Traveling back from Hot Springs last
night, late enough not to worry
over the day’s calls left undone,
a side road I’d often passed
called in the voice of a million yellow flowers.
For once I didn’t think twice how the sun
was low, another day shot tracking hours
across a map. Give in. What’s the hurry,
said the gravel spitting under my wheels,
and I let that lane lead me where it would.
Laughing, lost, an outlaw on the roam,
pleased at the breeze on my face and how it feels
to park along the cutbank where I stood
in the flow of pretending I might never go home.

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