The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker

Chapter 1
It was an odd sort of Spring, the kind where Winter lingered like a blanket of wet slush that refused to drip off the roof. And though the temperature teased and rain threatened to wipe the slate clean, the wasteland of broken branches and grit strewn across the road reminded Allen that warmer temperatures had yet to prevail. Everyday brought the same drive home from work, but today the breeze's bite was almost pleasant, and perhaps signaled a turn toward warmer days.
Allen was the sort of chap who thrived in the routine of the work week. Every morning he woke at 6:00am, ate his lunch at the noon hour, and wrapped up the day's project by 4 o'clock. He was friends with his co-workers, made employee of the year, and was kind to his clientele. Yet despite all his good work, there was something undone, something missing in the back of his head, as he hummed with the radio and glided over the blacktop road. As he turned down the last street that every day before had led him home, he hadn't finished the song that the radio had played and he now had stuck looping through his thoughts.
The driveway rolled by, as he coasted down the street, coming to a slow stop at the next sign. His cat had probably wondered from the window whether his car would be the one to turn down the lane. But here he sat at the edge of the road with a choice between right and left. It was hardly a wince to think he had missed his turn, and no worry made him turn around. Instead with a twitch of the wrist, he signalled and sallied forth.
At first, it was as if the loop had started over, the turn was not unlike a thousand trips before to fetch milk or cigarettes. And with a quick check of the gas guage, he sped through a chain of lights - all green. Allen daydreamed of stopping by the hardware store for a pipe wrench, or how he might get the lawnmower blade sharpened. And he danced through the mall, passing by the storefronts of his mind for an errand to run. And then a light turned yellow, the radio blared an ad for patio vinyl awnings, and finally he came to a stop.
The road took two directions, straight ahead through the suburban neighborhoods, and with a gentle slope to the right and up and onto the local highway. Well, Allen couldn't think of a reason to drive by that endless string of whitewashed homesteads people called homes, so he followed the onramp up - it just felt like the "straight head."
It wasn't until the familiar landmarks melted into the rolling Pennsylvania hills, that it dawned on his day-weary mind that he was leaving that familiar perimeter you could draw with a crow-flown protractor around his house. Those sweet hills rose up and cradled his speeding car, in a blended whirlpool of greening leaves and undulating power lines that mesmerized the driver's gaze into a human cruise control. The sedan top peeled back in his mind, and 55 miles per hour of imagination's wind lifted his soul. He was already a thousand miles away when the cellphone rang, and Allen snapped back into his seat and felt the safety buckle across his chest.
"Hello?" he said.
"Uh, yes, I'm on my way home." The contradiction nipped as he answered with words that had been unknowingly rehearsed so many times for this day. "Am I?" he thought to himself. "What am I doing?" came the inner monologue, but it was promptly broken by the next question.
"There's a few stops I need to make." Yes, he was satisfied that this was all his little excursion would be - a veritable Sunday drive. And with that his tone became convincing.
"I love you too," he said and so the call ended. He knew the next exit, though at a distance, would lead him home; but it was so much easier not to turn, and with that non-decision, he left the car again to drive itelf.
■