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Dave Bonta
I’ve been so swamped, I took
a mental health day, called in sick.
My poems are dwindling like unused
extra fingers. But the signs
weren’t good: first the car
that wouldn’t start, then no heat
in the apartment. And in between
the therapist saying you have to learn
to let go. Hell, I barely made it
to the appointment. How can I relax
when my mechanic charges twice
as much as my therapist? I ask
the radiator repairman, can’t you fix it
so it doesn’t knock?
I need things to be simpler than they are.
Today my car still isn’t running
there is a map of my mind
I resolve to find myself on it
but no second thoughts
my coffee is an empire
my car the very end
of the world that I know
a sandwich for dinner
in a car park
there is a test every day
of how to live
Alone, I went
to church in a stone
and went home to a car
to go five or six days
to supper.
German engine—
the matter-of-fact discourse
about a miscarriage
Slush: the mellifluous sound
the tires make
just before they start spinning.
Soft snow banks
are treacherous as Loreleis,
pulling the unwary driver in.
I steer gingerly with windows down,
listening to the welcome hiss
of leaves and mud.
The two are within a block of each other
near the northern edge of downtown.
Whether in cahoots or competition,
both stake a claim on their respective stages.
One, a conductor at her podium
who stands mid-intersection
directing nonexistent traffic.
What plays in her head is anyone’s guess.
The other, a fly fisherman
whipping shadow-cast figure eights
over the empty street; determined to find meaning
when there is always a catch before his release.
As cars arrive to nudge both experimental theaters,
a dance ensues to the tune of one long echoing symphonic honk.
Twirling, arms waving, she casts a spell
over her orchestra pit to silence the critics.
Today, aged forty-eight and few months,
I gained the right to drive a car.
A bit odd, it was, to stand amidst youth,
Grey haired, bald and a paunch to boot.
Like a baby taking its first steps,
I drove an H, snug, between iron rods.
Forward in first, backward in reverse,
Turn a right and then a left, do it twice for an H.
In the clutch, I sense the release
In the throttle, the urge to move.
Braking when enough, shifting,
Gears to change my pace.
Aged middle, I drove on the left
Steering myself steadily.
Off the middle, slightly to left
I drove as I have, all my life.
cars driving past my window at 3 am
the noise disturbing the white sheet spread across the suburbs
waking up the babies
causing second-lasting fear for the adults
teenagers weeping under their dirty bedsheets stop for a moment to listen
to the rumbles
what about the driver?
were they driving home from the night shift?
or was it so much more?
were they driving to a body beneath their feet?
were they bawling, just wanting to get to sleep?
each noise early mornings is like a ripple in the water
it cause so much
but is over in a matter of seconds
I know it's silly
but I used to play a game
in my head
trying to find a reason
to believe you might change
your mind
If that car turns left, you still love me
If it's not past midnight, you still love me
If that girl sits in that chair, you still love me
If it's sunny tomorrow, you still love me
and I don't think I ever really believed
that stupid game would mean anything
but now I know for sure it didn't
because that car turned left
it was not yet midnight
that girl sat in that chair
What do you concentrate on
and who do you know?
Driving mother's blue Buick
over a country dirt road
the girl's huge tits, your ardor
enough to just about weep
and escape or college friendship
dull, secure, to sleep.
You did find your way home
one late summer afternoon
the shadows of the green leaves
their washing sound
exquisite tender sentiment
neither here nor there.
No putting out the fire
with water pure as the rain
Earlier in America
it got so cold
we drove west
the far west
the car's tires
stuck to the road.
As a gunman
you menaced shopgirls
your rat-sleek hair
your flashing glasses
small, dirty teeth
the girls adored.
You liked the way
they walked with arms folded
in the cold going for coffee.
You were asshole buddies