I couldn’t get a ride out of town
I couldn’t get a ride
back into town, and it was cold
getting dark
so I went into a wrecking yard
crawled into the back seat
of a ’39 Chevy
when I opened my eyes
a caravan of dew
was crossing a velvet terrain
back of the old front seat
each drop quivering under its burden
of morning sun
when I finally got a ride
from a farmer and his wife
he spoke to me
with respectful affection
he was from world war two
could see I was in the infantry
assumed I was like a son
he’d likely never see again
although he never did
I think of him now
a father I didn’t know I had
his war was over, however
it was still playing inside him
but we both knew another war
was coming
his eyes passed something into mine
a cartridge of grateful sorrow
locked into the breech of time
chance had thrown us together
we met in a cosmic synapse
so something transferred
but it was too late
for a repeat, fighting for your country
was already obsolete
I now realize how rare it is to see
the caravan from afar
apart from it
lying in the back of an old car
in a wrecking yard in kansas
in winter
without a dollar in your pocket
it came with a feeling of happiness
being solitary, able to watch
each wobbling dewdrop
carry its sack of sunlight
across that old velvet seat
they don’t make upholstery like that now
its musty, almost comforting, smell
arising from the nineteenth century
textile industry, a world that has gone
no one could avoid the war that came
whether they fought in it
or fought against it
even though I lucked out
I became a refugee from civilization
and caught up with that caravan of dew
I could have been anyone
anywhere
but I was there
because I was luckily broke
and stuck
I became my father
and gave myself a ride . . .
it often seems, as Lily Tomlin said
We’re all in this
alone
but when I think
of the caravan of dew
I’m part of everything
—that’s the caravan
I’m still traveling in
and will travel in until I die
and even then . . .
but if you’re nostalgic
for romantic glory, and want to die
to prove how much you love
your country, which doesn’t exist
or even for your brothers-in-arms
I recommend getting between a whale
and a Russian harpoon
and stick up for a peaceful
Leviathan
that is already dying, incidentally
of plastic plankton
there’s no shortage of things to fight for
when you’re a dewdrop full of sunlight
Note: Updated 09/23/18
I am so happy to be reminded that I am a drop of dewlight - or a drop of dew full of sunlight. Guess it all depends on how you look at things. Lily Tomlin may say that we are all in this alone but I like to practice belonging to the moment - to the experience of the moment. Even if life feels like a dream sometimes - the moment is what holds us - the moment, without doubt and thought, is real.
ReplyDeleteWhen Gene read at The Camptonville Community Center on 9/22/18 (See the post: A few words to my itinerant audience) this was the first poem he read.
ReplyDeleteIt may have been the best reading I've ever heard from him. He rocked it, and the audience, which contained several young poets, was mesmerized.
September 26, 2018 at 7:21 PM