On a Roll
by John Zedolik
The road rolls up
gravel-gray
so must be a hump,
greater than a whale,
to which I am harnessed
and was in ’92—though not sober and
certainly in a different spot where
3 a.m. arrived early as usual and
I with it at least awake and in control
enough—despite the drink and break-up sorrow—
to rein in that small second-hand beast, humping
up (red, invisible in the dark, to the sleepers)
like now, on calmer seas in clear mind where
the creature is strong enough to hoist the ancient
hulk of memory
and take me down—except for my unshielded senses
and the same luck I roped on that rolling sea
so many rides ago