I'm a Stranger Here Myself

I’m A Stranger Here Myself

By: Jack Howard Hatfield; My Grandfather

The bombers thunder down their dustless road
Not Phaethon himself drove steed like these.
Needing no spur, impervious to the goad,
Responsive to the skillful hand of boys
Who count the winds of speed a summer breeze.

Nourished on speed, grown callous to the wander,
They lunch in Texas, dine that night in Maine.
Deafened, aghast, I watch them steal Hooves’ Thunder,
And know I’m old and homesick for the sound
Of horses hoofs on dusty county lane.