Thursday, July 8, 2010

One Every 24 #20


The beat Chevy mounts the gravel rise at a crawl
stones popping slow against the cooling tires. Dust trail
billows away, dissolving into a bleached blue sky

Shadowy driver kills the engine, it knocks, gasps, knocks
again. Tight on the Chevy's door now. Fresh dents. Scars
from chasing through the construction zone's rebar maze.

The door swings open. It's always a car door
opening. Into the space between its bottom edge
and the dust. The boot you're familiar with, crunching

down into the gravel. Maybe even spurs. Or chains
or maybe not the boot at all. Maybe a high
heel. The turn. Then a crutch. A naked, artificial limb

emerging beneath this car door's lower edge. A child's leg.
A pig's foot. An egg falling past to open onto the dust
then smeared in by the knobby-sharp talon of a giant

predatory bird. Or maybe only you, simply lost
inside that one time you took that one wrong turn
and found yourself atop this desolate gravel rise

Leaning against an open car door, looking off
into the idea of exactly how did you get here
inside this life like a movie, surprised at nothing

Running from everything. Looking for the rest
of the story you expect.

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