Unconscious

As I start out on my trike ride,

a burly fellow in a Harmons truck,

asked me if I could tell him

where “Old Farm Road” is.

“Old Farm Road? No, I’m sorry.  I don’t know.”

Continuing on up the street, I thought,

“I should have told him to turn around

and go back the way he came."

I knew it wasn’t in the direction he was heading.

Raymond. Village Way. Country Road.

Country Way.  Green.  Laurelwood.

It might be over by the other church on Country Lane.

He must have figured that out as he passed me again

as I ploughed along Country Lane.

I continue on my “route”

and eventually come back by the church,

turning down Meeting House Road.

A half-block down, I turn onto – you guessed it –

“Old Farm Road”.

I’ve been down that road either on my trike

or walking or both,

every single half-decent day for more ten years—probably 15--

and I never knew the name of it.

How can I be so blasé?

Don’t I know a burly fellow in
a Harmons truck is going to ask me

where it is on one unassuming day?

I should have been prepared.

 

Truth be told, mine eyes see the glory of the scene not the sign.