On a Picnic Table at the Blue Creek Windmill Farm

They dip their paddles
Into the white-watered blue,
The windmills,
Keeping perfect time.

I have never missed a note
The air guitar.

There is a stack of 45s
Jammed on the spindle
Inside my head.

Jack and Diane
Have pledged eternal love
Inside a carved heart
On the table, punctuated
With bird shit.

Like a skein of geese
Harleys grumble down the Lincoln Highway.

The winged shadow passes, returns.

Forever has gone so fast.



About the Poet:
Robert E. Petras is a resident of Toronto, Ohio and a graduate of West Liberty University. His poems and fiction have appeared in more than 200 publications across the globe.



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