Hwy 5

Sometimes when passing by
these chiseled walls of stone
that permit us to
visit
golf courses
distant friends
and
man-made lakes,

I have had
pillows
and
siblings
and
Russian novels.

Today I have brought
Eugene Onegin.
I’ve not read it
in perhaps four months
and it deserves to be revisited.

Any time that the
superlative poet of a nation
dies at 38
because he challenged a man
to a duel,
it tells you something
about his character and a life;
lived with a beautiful woman
named Natalya
and beautiful unnamed vodka.
Although death is not more terrible
if it is experienced alone,
the vodka seems to be necessary.

When cresting over the hills,
where the water of the lake is seen
curving over the tops of trees for
the first time,
it always reminds me of
pretty girls
with blue eyes,
even when
I don’t want it to.