watchmaker

next poem will be another kids poem, though maybe quirkier...I'll finish today. but for now, true story poem.

ride

they, gray hair and extra pounds,
picked me up in their blue-van with seats that were so covered in cat hair
you couldnt see the fabric.

295, Brunswick to Portland.
easy as pie,
conversation light,
superficial,
about this daughter and that son and this plan and those plans and the weather.

then on the two-lane off ramp for Washington Ave, he puts his right directional on.

blink-
blink
blink-
blink

of course theres no space for us,
between the Bronco behind and the Explorer in front.
but why should that matter?

he, bull-at-red-cape-crazy,
charges for the 3 feet of space with his 9 feet of Chevy

my thought, are you fucking nuts?, is lost in my mellow-invincible feeling,
so Im exterior-calm.

3 feet becomes 10 in an amazing display of moronic driving, and we are,
unnecessarily,
in the left lane.

Bronco screams by in the rapidly narrowing right lane.
tapping his brakes, swerving and drunk on road rage

the drivers door is open-and-closing like a shutter.

we go three blocks, four blocks, and
at the intersection in front of 7-11
the
light
turns
red.

Bronco is out of the truck and at our drivers side door in seconds.

hes 50 years of crew cut and Marines and beer. hoo-ya!.

I should tear your fucking head off!
What the fuck do you need to be in my lane for?
Theres two fucking lanes!

inside, Im shrugging, agreeing.

my driver is silent.

in what i feel is an amazing display of self-restraint, Bronco doesnt actually tear my drivers head off, but storms back to his truck.

passenger seat says, well, he had his directional on.