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Kate Fadick

Road Trip




This is the day you are lost.

One county road after another


then the small town

with the roundabout.


Pickups, cars, farm equipment

all circle the monument


a red-tail hawk








The house where you grew up

is being readied for sale.


One last visit today,

and you take a pottery


bowl, birdhouses

your father made,


his rosary. It is the time

hummingbirds begin


their courageous migration.

You see only one.







You make a new

map with each trip,


take them slow,

these weekly sojourns,


skirt what was once

the Great Black Swamp.


Its meadows seas of green

that danced with the slightest


summer breeze. Its forests

stood full of oak, sycamore,


hickory, untouched,

stretched toward the sky.







The autumn gold car rolls in line

behind the sleek black hearse.


Rain pulls leaves to the windshield,

and you wonder aloud where all


your father was has gone,

spy the hawk circling.


An embrace broken

as three Marines begin


a slow salute, and you

find your way to the waiting


breach in the grass.



Kate Fadick is "emerging" as a poet at age 67. Interesting work held the muse at bay for too many years, and now she takes long walks, photographs, and has time to read, as well as write, poems. Her first chapbook, SLIPSTREAM, was recently released by Finishing Line Press.