By: Jim Brosnan

Forever Daydreaming

It’s almost eight
as I barrel past
waves of corn rows,
the July sunset
splashing the Kansas
sky in strawberry
swirls, the long
shadows of evening
stretched across
broken white lines
on the interstate.
I listen to oldies
on the truck radio,
harmonize with Elvis,
familiar lyrical lines
I sing in the cab
when I think of you.

Journey

We were fifty-five
miles north of Chicago
heading toward
the Black Hills
when I pulled
into a truck stop,
tried to compose
a lengthy narrative
in poetic form,
but I lacked
the perseverance
to complete it
before we returned
to the interstate
ninety-two miles
from Wall Drug,
the western sky
a deep cherry,
our bodies exhausted,
my eyes bloodshot.
It was almost
the end of summer.

Memories of Those We Kissed

I breath in lost time
patiently stand
at the edge
of the estuary,
contemplate
the details
of our lost story
under the flickering
light of dawn,
linger at the salt
marsh’s edge,
thick with frost,
remember
our presence
months before.

Front Porch Daydreams

Beyond silver silos
the rolling fields
of corn and wheat
stretch for miles.
On the porch step,
an orange tabby

washes—his right paw
slipping over his ear,
indifferent to my hasty
moves until a shovel
clangs against
the metal cart before

I start the tractor.
When I return
at the end of the day,
I spend time swinging
on wicker, humming
ballads by Vinton.

Tomorrow I will depart
for the City of Lights
where I will rent an artist’s
loft, translate Verlaine.
Gertrude Stein’s cafés
are still open for lunch.

Under Colorado Skies

I am barely
able to forget
the August
evening
that we browsed
Elkhorn Avenue
souvenir shops
as the setting sun
quietly slipped
behind fourteen
thousand foot
mountain peaks
without notice
while our
intimacy
was obvious
in the threads
of silence
after dark.

I-70 Near Salina

After a few hours
of reading the same
hotel billboards
in bumper-to-bumper
traffic we pass
the construction zone.

Hours before we savored
a watermelon sunset
while ominous clouds
approached Kansas plains,
eighty miles west
of the Missouri state line.

My attention is now drawn
to the flashing neon sign
at the Huddle House, part
of the Flying J Travel Center—
refuge while thunderstorms
engulf the local landscape.

Dawn Watch

Under old stars
our words drift
across rolling
Midwest meadows
as I ponder life
in these silent
hours—
moments when
thunder cracks
the Indiana skies,
moments when
I am transfixed
by memory,
moments when
we touched under
turning maple,
moments when
we watched
dancing fireflies,
moments when
we hear the call
of a loon,
moments that
are almost
forgotten.

Autumn Secret

If you want to know
all the details—
we explored the length
of Nashua’s main street
that October evening
after enjoying dinner—
eggplant parmigiana
at Villa Banca.
After the meal
we continued our stroll,
the scent of garlic
and oregano wafting
from a nearby
chef-owned bistro,
before we lingered
at the storefront
of an antique shop
where we admired
teal and amber vases.
I’d forgotten that
cumulus obscured
the harvest moon
that autumn night
as we walked
hand in hand—
a cool fall breeze
caressing our faces.

###

A Pushcart nominee, Dr. Jim Brosnan is the author of Long Distance Driving (2024) and Nameless Roads (2019) copies are available opmewriter@gmail.com. His poems have appeared in the Aurorean (US), Crossways Literary Magazine (Ireland), Eunoia Review (Singapore), Nine Muses (Wales), Scarlet Leaf Review(Canada), Strand (India), The Madrigal (Ireland), The Wild Word (Germany), and Voices of the Poppies (United Kingdom). He holds the rank of full professor at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, RI.