Dec 2018
It was one of those black,
crystalline
winter mornings.
There was no moon
or
stars that could be seen.
The coastal storms
had harried our
Midwestern weather pattern,
dosed us with perhaps,
a little more winter
than we’d previously
been ready for.
Out the door,
on the street,
just before five o’clock
in the morning.
The air is not still,
but doesn’t have much movement to it.
This breeze has teeth though,
they bite hard enough
that everything in me
says that it might be a good idea to stop,
turn around,
get back under the covers,
hideout for a few more hours.
But, I’m already out here.
I’ve chosen the Phillips 66 sign
as my adopted moon,
letting it guide my steps.
I pass by that mechanic’s yard.
The yellow IROC Z-28 stares at me
with her dim headlights,
reflecting the light of that
‘not-a-moon’ moon
we’d both elected to go in for.
“I used to go fast”, she says.
“Me too”, I say and keep walking.
There was a time that I wanted that car
like I’d wanted women I had known
during years and versions of myself
long gone.
Really though,
I don’t know what I would have done
with those yellow fishtailing hips,
those screaming tires,
that black vinyl-wrapped steering wheel.
Yeah,
that car was very much like
those long-lost lusted for women,
in that I’d have been flummoxed
as to what to do with them after a while.
There are only so many
red lights to run,
so many hairpin turns to take,
holding that yolk for dear life.
There are only so many mindless rolls in the sack,
only so many beers with bourbon sidecars.
I keep walking.
That yellow Camaro winks at me
a few more times
under the light of that gas-station moon.
I keep walking.
Nowadays we’d both make
that same quarter-mile run
to the Phillips 66
in the same amount of time.
However,
she’s all caged up
in that chain-link lot.
I’m not.
I’m free.
I’m cold,
but where I’ll end up,
I’ll fill up on biscuits and gravy,
sit in a warm booth,
hope that someone
has already left a morning paper behind,
and stare into the inky, starless pre-dawn sky.
Likely becoming
hopelessly infatuated with my
adopted moon.
*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
crystalline
winter mornings.
There was no moon
or
stars that could be seen.
The coastal storms
had harried our
Midwestern weather pattern,
dosed us with perhaps,
a little more winter
than we’d previously
been ready for.
Out the door,
on the street,
just before five o’clock
in the morning.
The air is not still,
but doesn’t have much movement to it.
This breeze has teeth though,
they bite hard enough
that everything in me
says that it might be a good idea to stop,
turn around,
get back under the covers,
hideout for a few more hours.
But, I’m already out here.
I’ve chosen the Phillips 66 sign
as my adopted moon,
letting it guide my steps.
I pass by that mechanic’s yard.
The yellow IROC Z-28 stares at me
with her dim headlights,
reflecting the light of that
‘not-a-moon’ moon
we’d both elected to go in for.
“I used to go fast”, she says.
“Me too”, I say and keep walking.
There was a time that I wanted that car
like I’d wanted women I had known
during years and versions of myself
long gone.
Really though,
I don’t know what I would have done
with those yellow fishtailing hips,
those screaming tires,
that black vinyl-wrapped steering wheel.
Yeah,
that car was very much like
those long-lost lusted for women,
in that I’d have been flummoxed
as to what to do with them after a while.
There are only so many
red lights to run,
so many hairpin turns to take,
holding that yolk for dear life.
There are only so many mindless rolls in the sack,
only so many beers with bourbon sidecars.
I keep walking.
That yellow Camaro winks at me
a few more times
under the light of that gas-station moon.
I keep walking.
Nowadays we’d both make
that same quarter-mile run
to the Phillips 66
in the same amount of time.
However,
she’s all caged up
in that chain-link lot.
I’m not.
I’m free.
I’m cold,
but where I’ll end up,
I’ll fill up on biscuits and gravy,
sit in a warm booth,
hope that someone
has already left a morning paper behind,
and stare into the inky, starless pre-dawn sky.
Likely becoming
hopelessly infatuated with my
adopted moon.
*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
