squinting from darkness in the bright;
the luxury van of yesterdays's tomorrow... a suburban,
pulls into the lot where I waitressed in ice cream dreams.
Hidden from windows by the back door,
my stop obscures and blocks a young driver in white...
from his parcels of perishables deliverance.
I look away in awe and fatigue,
backing blindly in slow retreat,
pulling up before tinted windows...
a worrisome fret... who is looking out
and watching my maneuvers.
The exit waits and beckons...
the road is clear...
stubbornly a k-turn is fashioned
in opposite park... facing the woods
and stream , I pull to a spot
to a workman's truck... almost perfectly.
Too close, my side mirror rests
within the flatbed of rear...
he'll never get out if I stay here.
The slowest back-up comes crookedly,
almost a back paneled scrape
to the reddened quarter panel-
shit- watchers can see the fuck up.
White lines are no longer visible
as I inch and crawl forward
and back... not too close to his door.
The weary face looks through the wheel
that juts from a dashboard...
dammit, I'm in my spot.
Give me the energy to go in
and scoop my ice cream sundae...
heavy on the whipped cream,
with a cherry on top.
*** I'm synthesizing.. see Wendilea speaks 07-11-09.
I'll split it with you
ReplyDeleteWe dream of the past to makes sense of the future... there is plenty to share... dig in!
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