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Diana Lang
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 Mother's Road

They gave me a mapkin on the flight,
As I dreamt of winding desert highways.
We dodged the tumble weasels on old 66.
Guardian angels disguised as police,
Watched over our journey through frozen,
Wastelands of ghost towns destroyed,
By failing economies and greed gone awry.
Beacons of stability in the tourism of idyllic myths,
Idolizing the gangsters of the past,
Whose weapons now sit dormant behind glass cases.
Where once rode horses big rigs now caravan,
Their wild lights shining, signaling in secret language.
Through deserts of death, mountains of hope,
And sweet, sweet civilization.
We journey towards the future,
Often fearing we were lost,
Yet we are always in the right place.

    Originally published in the book 
      Abundant Sparks & Personal Archeology.