Henry Stimpson

Gone Astray

A Rolling Stones song pounds and blares
while I beat time on the padded dashboard
as I drive through this suburban nowhere
beyond the town square with teens looking bored
 
and the strip mall into reclaimed country.
Stone walls snake across old farmland over- 
grown with scrubby oaks. Tall black tree
trunks arise from glazed swamp water.
 
I crank down the windows. My day’s unplanned.
I sing with Mick on this sunny spring day.
No tulips yet, but new grass glows, and
I let each random road lead me astray.
 
Now the day yellows as sun slants lower.
I remember I said I’d cook supper.
I pull into a lot, unfold the map
and plot a course toward home, that cozy trap.

A Massachusetts resident, Henry Stimpson also writes nonfiction, roots for the Boston Celtics, and is a volunteer ESOL tutor for adults.  His poems have appeared in many publications, including Poet Lore, Rolling Stone, Delmarva Review, Third Wednesday, Atlanta Review, On the Seawall, Mad River Review, The New Criterion, Scientific American and Lighten Up Online.  His first book of poems, “Divine Details,” (Kelsay Books) will appear in September.