The start of a familiar journey,
the dread of the same old road.
I turn on the jazz tape
and listen to its message.
It tells me to go a different way.
Today Louie wants to sing a familiar tune
in a different landscape.
A country road in the early morning sun,
fall golds and dusty greens
to substitute for the shimmering freeway.
A mellow Turrentine slows the car,
and the countryside becomes a medley
of peace and tranquility.
A saloon piano allows my wondering mind
to wander free
from the confining freeway.
The dust from a tractor plowing
under the late summer crop,
a background curtain
for the smoky torch song of Lee Wiley.
Back and forth over backcountry roads,
deliciously lost in a jazz fantasy.
Turn with the tune,
go with the rhythm.
Be free in the world
for a short time.
All too soon hunger and the freeway call
for my jazz curtain to drop.
After greasy eggs
come the noisy talk shows,
full of loud folksy hate.
Can’t waste great jazz on freeways.
The jazz map is for the soul.
The freeways for mindlessness,
for which talk shows
provide the dulling.