It’s past midnight
and I’m contemplating the old adage
that bad things happen in threes.
The third being me sitting passenger in a tow truck
with Sam the Tow Truck Driver (I don’t ask his last name
it isn’t that kind of a friendship).
But we do force conversation like
it’s meatloaf night and the T.V’s broken.
The subjects are exhausted in five miles of bland scenery
and silence chimes in. I can’t find a time to interrupt
so the next five miles seem arrogant and pose as ten.
The problem was, we both feared voices.
Life pushes through that medium to remind us
why we’re living it through intervals of three.
Instead, we take refuge in the mutual mute
and synchronize our thoughts with the Truck’s
rocking, pulling us to the next yellow road mark.
There’s a gratitude in being pulled forward,
a simplicity in it. No skepticism for the road.
Just a promise that the hill is easier on the eyes
going down.
I can tell Sam knows this and wanted me to as well.
Now, there’s something to be said about sitting next to a stranger
that empowers and draws one to say it:
“Why?”
I suddenly realized that this truck towed more.
The tires weighed down from the joys anchoring us
in a forsaken memory. Forsaken by those we remember more vividly
than the hillside or the road, pieced and patched by canary thread.
We identify with the road that carries us back to square one.
In that connection, we speak about squares two and three.
I work my way back:
“My dog died without me.” Sam just nodded, slowly
with a rhythm that I recognized, one that gave meter to our lives.
It was Sam’s way of saying what he felt.
He mentioned the death in his life, still to that familiar beat.
There was sense to it all, but we only understood.
It was not meant to be resolved.
I didn’t tell him about you, the first.
I didn’t need to.
Broken hearts find one another and it explained
our current company. There wasn’t a right word
or a method to this chaos. Just the title of the memory:
“I Loved Her, Sam.”
Sam let off the gas and shifted to neutral.
There, twenty-three miles to Warrensburg,
we coasted downhill… back to square one.
Author notes
A bit of non-fiction fiction
A contest entry
- Invite Only: Favorites by Lj-.
600 points, ended March 4, 2008, 28 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
i LOVEEEE the way you write
“My dog died without me.” Sam just nodded, slowly
with a rhythm that I recognized, one that gave meter to our lives.
It was Sam’s way of saying what he felt.
He mentioned the death in his life, still to that familiar beat.
There was sense to it all, but we only understood.
It was not meant to be resolved.
that was amazing :|
i'm definitely gonna check out some more of your stuff. -
I enjoyed this poem.....
you captured us and placed us right beside you in the
tow truck with Sam, and felt the quiet uncomfortableness
that we both could understand.
You wrote this using a masculine voice that we women sometimes fail to understand, that bond of men knowing
without saying, distancing their unspoken feelings.
I enjoyed this poem, and thankyou for the ending, it
gave us thought and made us smile to hear the unspoken
connections we have with one magnetically together.
ears2hearyou/Seattle. well done! very well done!
If i were to improve it? I would improve the format
so it appeared to flow easier giving us breath in parts
that we needed, and pulled us tighter in to keep us
connected. Get rid of too many and's could replace with
as....let it flow, don't be afraid of adding air to
your poem, it gives us the readers a time to catch
our breath and enjoy your imagery that you have
painted upon the line.
Structure does that, it adds air.
You could shorten by excusing/editing the full length
explainations, we can figure that for ourselves as
readers...or cause an interesting reflection...
a tension that pulls us to the next line with
fascination.
I truly enjoyed your story!
well done, well done!
ears/Seattle.
I fight structures all the time, but it is a wise
and flowing discipline very respectful to the reader,
and does add flow and air to our poems.
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