In Which I Have Another Bad Car Trip

Westbound and down, the wrong time of the day,
And I was driving straight into the sun.
My windshield's imperfections made a spray
Of glare that 'twas opaque. I slowed our run
To just a crawl. 'Tis what I dread the most:
To have to drive at highway speeds when I
Can't see a thing; delinator posts
And faded striping slowly crawling by
As though it were a blizzard late at night.
The world shrank down to squeeze in on my car,
And ev'ry forward mile a sep'rate fight
Until I knew no longer just how far
Or near the next town was. Lost, there, in space
I struggled not to curse that lonely place.

Grasshopper Gloss: In Which An Analogy Is Drawn

O grasshoppers, you scoff to see me wave,

That gesture ceding you the right to cross

The concrete -- as though simply that could save

You from becoming just a smear, a gloss

Upon the Greenway's surface. No, you wait

Or fly away in haste. There's wisdom there.

Likewise, e'en though I know that many hate

My firm refusal of concern and care

Some motorists extend on city streets

That I traverse, that cut across my path.

I trust you not, as memory still bleats

Distress at one who waved, then hit me. Hath

We come to this, assuming evil of

Those who might truly mean us naught but love?

Tweet

In Which I Channel My Inner Sangamon Taylor For A Moment

I'm mighty but there's really just so much
A woman on a bicycle can do.
This afternoon was an example such
As we may rarely see. I needed through
A busy surface street -- the Greenway's not
Entirely discrete from auto routes --
And it was one thick stream of cars, a lot
More, driving faster than typically suits
A jaywalker's or cyclist's need to slip
Across. While waiting, sev'ral cranky cars
Lined up behind me, honking. I'd have flipt
A gesture but I saw my chance (not ours),
Stared down a biddy, pulled a Sangamon.
She stopped for me but then roared blithely on.

In Which I Enjoy A Rainy Bike Commute

"I get a buzz from being cold and wet,"
Pete Townsend sings, and I can but agree.
How else explain the soaking that I get
When on a rainy day, I choose to be
A bike commuter. While the cars slow down,
Their windshields fogged and blurred, their drivers mad,
I speed on down the Greenway, love my town
For giving me this back route. Bits are bad,
I will not lie; the tunnels 'neath Dell Range
Are flooded and detours I have to make
Force me to deal with angry drivers. Change
Is good for me, though; just means I must take
Some extra care. Meanwhile the water pours
And I soar blithely through the great outdoors.

In Which I Do Not Enjoy My Day's Drive One Bit

"May 25th, so put your parka on,"
My buddy said as I pulled out of town.
You'd think this was sarcasm; you'd be wrong.
A sheaf of thundersnow was coming down
So thick and bad I could but barely see.
The windshield wipers weren't up to the job
For one, and for another, there must be
A better word for what that sky did. Sob!
The world grows tiny on such trips, down to
The pavement and the mucky, murky air:
No sight of all of country driven through,
Each quarter-mile its own tough challenge. There
Is nothing like Wyoming in the spring.
No really: there is not any such thing.

In Which Some Tables Are Slightly Turned

A friend sold Dad his pickup; so began

A fine scenario nobody meant

To generate, but now this bustling man

Is getting just a taste of how we've spent

The years with him. A big truck, blank and white

Looks like all of the other pickups parked

All 'round the busy stores. This is a slight

And satisfying irony it's sparked:

Now he can't find it either, sometimes. He

Has trouble, too, betimes, with the seat belt,

Not unlike what his wife has often; she

Has lev'rage trouble spooling it out, felt

Quite stupid often as he sighed in wait.

In this, at last, my Mom has found her mate.

In Which Is Considered Mile Marker 332

The interstate fogged in across the top,
Just me and near one hundred giant trucks,
We slow sometimes to something like a stop;
A wreck up here gets messy and my luck's
Been on a streak of awesome; if it runs
Out here I'm in big trouble. One mistake
However small, begets much bigger ones
As trucks crash into crashes. How I quake
Just driving past a milepost where once burned
So many trucks at such an intense heat
The pavement melted and eight people earned
Their tickets out of this life. Caution's meet
As I traverse the area; I've got
More now to live for than I ever sought!

Do Robot Cars Dream Of Electric Sharks

Sonneteer's note: this is a more detailed account of a dream I had two days ago. I wanted to record it while it was still somewhat fresh, and also to answer those who had questions about it.

A makeshift small arena, somewhere far

From anyplace I know, they circled 'round

Each other. Mayhap more robot than car,

I knew they each had shark's minds. With no sound

They tested out each other for a time.

A feint, a probe, a whiff of engine grease,

Then whirring came a power saw blade, primed

To gut the other; soon, just to increase

The menace, from the other shark-car came

An apparatus, swift and deadly which

My vision yet preserves but I can't name.

As they tore at each other, for a switch,

The impresario turned loose dogs, who

Came to no harm midst all this battle. Phew!

In Which I Have Had To Keep My Wits About Me On My Way

Night driving is a challenge at its best,

When elements do merge, as Whitman said.

Less horrid than at sunset, when it's west

To which one has to drive into the red

And blue and grey, directly into glare.

But I was driving east; 'twas just delay

And indolence that forced me to beware

Of darkness, eighteen-wheelers, and the play

Of wind and snow and ice across the road.

At least no white-outs threatened, but snow plows

And unskilled winter drivers, these bestowed

An extra need for caution and for vows

To tarry not so long 'midst the delights

Of coffee, chess and wine, on future nights.

In Which I Fret Just A Little

My parents are enroute now to Cheyenne
From Saratoga, while my sister, Kris,
Is coming from New Mexico; the plan
Is that they will converge, if naught's amiss,
At my house, like the Simpson family
At credits' end. Meanwhile they're all in cars,
And I try not to worry. It will be
Just fine, I tell myself. I'll thank my stars
Quite soon that they all made it, hug them, and
Dish up some Bambi chili for their meal.
It's weird how ev'ry year, whate'er we've planned
This is the situation and I feel
The psychic strain of keeping on the road
Carloads of far-off loved ones, then explode.

In Which I Believe I'm Staying In Tonight After All

Martinis with the girls, that was my plan
To celebrate what is my Friday night.
But as I find a window and I scan
The snowy streets, one fact doth come to light:
What now is fluffy snow will get packed down
By rush hour's vast herd of cars and trucks
Until quite nearly ev'ry road in town
Could double as a hockey rink. Aw, shucks.
I do have errands that had best not wait,
But they can happen ere sunset and then
It's best that I head home. T'will be too late
By then to venture safely out again.
Perhaps if holidays weren't here to cause
A surge in drunken drivers I'd not pause.

In Which I Have A Tiny Panic Attack At Work

Alone here in a fishbowl, full of folk
Absorbed in work and play, ignoring me,
I suddenly can't shake or call a joke
The feeling that has made me want to flee:
Just weeks ago a jackass in a truck
Hit me on Deep Blue as I crossed a street.
Just days ago another tested luck -
The driver, texting, nearly made me meet
My newly-dead friend sooner than I'd planned:
Was head-on for me and swerved as I did
To miss. It seemed dead-certain that my grand
Time on this Earth was done. Did someone bid
Him look up? It's unknown. But now the sense
That something wants me dead, too, is intense.

In Which The Construction Gods Smile On Me At Last

Returned from Saratoga, lo, I find

That Dell Range Avenue is nearly back

To normal, on my eastern end. My mind

much eased by this, I failed to note that smack

Amidst us all, new traffic lights now hang

At Marble Avenue! So that is what

The mess was for? Illus'ry safety bang

In my own subdivision? That's great, but

I still won't fall for it, not on my bike.

Or in my car, or walking. Red or green,

They're still just symbols. Sure we all would like

To think they are preventive, but the scene

Just down the street at Converse surely proves

That head-in-ass is still how traffic moves.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Wish A Motorist Ill

Convertible driver, you funny guy,

While it's hilarious, sure, I agree,

To honk your horn just as I pass on by

You on my bike while I go 'crosst the street,

And laugh a brutish laugh at my small scream,

It's funny, too, to hope that some day soon

A murder of foul crows cuts loose a stream,

A rain of well-used carrion, right at noon,

On you and your sweet ride. I'd not so curse

Were honking as I passed your only sin --

But revving up your engine with a lurch

Right for me? Lo, the harridan within

Me wakes and calls down all upon your head

A shower of shit. You'll wish that you were dead.

In Which Is Discovered A Brand New Species

It took podcasting weekly to allow

Me to discover this, a wholly new

And quite unwelcome species. Just for now

Dellrange dumbasicus will have to do

Until Linneans rule on this, my name

For this most noxious creature I so loathe.

Cockroaches, slugs, ants, mice, all have ill-fame

Most undeserved; they've vital roles. I'll clothe

In shame this creature in their stead, one which

Hath no redeeming virtues. All is noise

And fumes where'er it travels. Yes I bitch

In vain against the thund'ring, speeding cars

That ruin my recording tries for hours.

In Which I Grouse A Bit About My New License Plate

Booktastic Jack got his new tags today,

More than just tags; Wyoming's got new plates.

Sure on a website they look nice, but they

Are not so vivid in real life. Our state's

Got much to live up to in this regard.

Most recently, we featured Devil's Tow'r,

Long famed, if you're a UFO diehard,

As where some Spielberg aliens in our

Collective memory touched down. We've still

The bucking horse, of course, forevermore.

Ol' Steamboat will not leave us, not until

The Yellowstone volcano blows up or --

I can't think of what else. But this I knows:

The Tetons don't show up, so this plate blows.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Scream Like Kirk At Khan After Checking The Schedule At Work

I was to take my Jack to Logan Ave
Tomorrow before I headed to work.
I'd hoped perhaps they'd fix him and I'd have
Him back by shift's end. Lo the fates did smirk.
We've changed things up, as far as schedules go.
My shift now starts at six-thirty a.m.
The change was next week, I had thought, but no!
Tomorrow is the day. I cannot stem
The tide of screams my muscles now emit,
As, knowing that Deep Blue is my recourse,
And that all winter I got not a whit
Of exercise and that now, by main force
No matter what the weather, we shall ride
To work and back before we've really tried.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Fret Over My Gas Guzzling Pal

Alongside Deep Blue in my heart is Jack,

Booktastic Buick Skylark, and the means

For my commute most of the year. He's black

With red inside and sleek, like most machines

About which poems are written. Yesternoon 

Upon the summit where the fog did spread

My Jack got thirsty. Though we'd be home soon

I'm told his type is best not run to red,

So (secret) Trading Post got it some trade.

But from the way my Jack's behaving now

I'm thinking that the gas was lower grade

Than is quite right. He's sluggish as a cow

At lower speeds, though he can still go fast.

We barely made it home tonight. Damnblast!

BONUS SONNET: The Night Of The Pug

The pug that will be Kevin's lives quite far

From Cheyenne town; to see him took a trip

That we were glad to make in Kevin's car,

But Michael took his own 'cause he's too hip

To wait around to watch us old folks coo.

'Twas fine until we made the journey back,

And Michael slid right off the road and through

A fence. Looked like a crash! My heart attack!

Call 911! A deputy arrived,

With wisecracks in his police car, and coached

My boys through their first tire change, contrived

To make it all quite funny. Then he broached

The subject, pouring on the drawling flatt'ry,

Of just how dead was our poor Kevin's batt'ry.