Dear Hitchhikers, I am Not Heartless

I-5 112116CToday I am sharing with you a poem I wrote on my recent trip to California. I see hitchhikers often. I never pick them up, but I wish they could hear what I’m saying and thinking as I whiz by. Do you stop for hitchhikers? Why or why not? Please share in the comments.


Sitting, standing, squatting
with your backpack, guitar, dog,
I see you. I want to stop.
I’m not a heartless woman.
You can’t hear what I say
as you breathe in my exhaust:

I’m on the freeway, fool,
going 70 miles per hour!
Are you nuts? I can’t stop here
with cars on every side. I’m just
trying to stay alive.
Go stand somewhere else.

Are you too lazy to stand up?
Or too worn out to even try?
I’m only going down the road.
That’s not much help to you.
Besides, my car is full of stuff,
Groceries and clothes and such.

Oh gosh, you look so tired.
And what a darling dog.
You might be fine, you play guitar.
But what if you have a knife?
Or a gun? Or drugs?
I don’t want to die today.

I know you see my big old car,
and then you see old gray-haired me.
You look on down the road.
Old ladies never stop, and yet
you’re someone’s little boy.
Perhaps someday I will.

Copyright Sue Fagalde Lick 2017

Still life poems

On a peaceful August Sunday, I tried my hand at poetic still life. I’d love to read your attempts if you care to send them in the comments section. No spam or blatant obscenity, okay?

Muted Morning

Ocean hushed, red alders still.
Dogs sniffs fish-tinged air.
Mist dots my cheeks as I peer
through the gauze that binds
my dream-tattered soul,
waiting for the sleeping sun
to push back its quilt
and set the day ablaze.

The Seventh Day: We Rest

Smooth beach, shining.
Ocean pulls back,
slapping sand,
its tide work done.
Dog lolls on warm deck.
I lie watching swallows
in a soft blue-willow sky.
Wind chimes jingle.
August alders dance.

Copyright Sue Fagalde Lick 2010

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