MOCKING THE MOUNTAINS

The mountains wrinkle
In worried burrows-
Valleys that long for
The constant echo
Which fills my mind.
Songs on the radio
That are begging you to cry
And a baby in the backseat
That cannot help but giving in.
The passing by his window
Is as somber as mine,
He cannot feel the crispness
In the air that buries it.
Only the warmth of sunshine
Moving silently across his face.
He does not feel the wall
Of traffic ignoring themselves
And holding us back
From a place he knows
And a bed that he misses.
Then when he laughs
At nothing, after an hour
Of complex quiet
I smile at the understanding
Mountains that shadow our path.
For while their laugh
May be the last,
They have seen it all before,
And know that the joke is on them.