I stepped out of the Scottish Inn into a light mist. "Car," I thought."Where was help?" I wondered. Broke down in Lake City. On Main Street I could look east and know this street deadended into a lake. The Movement of God would take me west to the Engine Room where the boys would pronounce the word serpentine slowly while looking at my belts. I had developed a mild case of tinnitus in the form of an inner voice saying "car" whenever conversation arose. This was not the Tennessee I had drawn. The one with horses and whiskey was balled up in the waste basket at the Scottish Inn. And there would be no drink at the counter with MacDuff to send me on my way. Ganesh said, "have a good day". Ultimately what would save me was the prayer offered by a woman who was moved to speak to God concerning my situation. "Lord, help him find the path out of this mess," she said, touching my shoulder there at the gas station. "Car," I responded, as she walked away. Later the boys at the Engine Room would give me some weak-ass coffee and say, "you're all set." "Car," I replied, smiling.
2 comments:
via "rain in my purse", i found your blog. spent some time reading your poetry- i like your work. this poem, in particular, kinda called out to me. "fender" was my reply.
sherry o'keefe
http://toomuchaugustnotenoughsnow.blogspot.com
hi sherry. there is something elemental about the sudden loss of one's car, especially half way to one's destination. Georgia to Ohio. the Car being quickly takes over. Fender is a good fundamental blurt. Kind of like pointing or shrugging. I will drive over to you soon. Thanks for reading and communicating. Ron
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