A neon impasse, a bright memory
blocks my way and asks me
to remember late-night drives
and stage lights, quiet glows
and gentle dancing.
I look away replying with my own
shadowy memory. Asking
to remember tear stained faces,
and smoky balconies. To remember
old murmured words.
So find the synthesis, a neon sign
hidden in smoke, gentle trees,
and drives so late that they’ve
become morning again. Remember
the gentle glow of sunlight
dancing on my dash to the sound
of a half-broken radio.