Salina, Kansas

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