Posts Tagged Ford

Dangerous Bubbles by City Building

Mark was looking thoughtful, crooked neck with green eyes zooming in on sky, leaning left, right, left in the middle of a gravel parking lot. He has a way of consistently looking pensive. He often scrubs his chin with extended fingers and looks to the sky for all of the answers. Mark is sober, but his son isn’t.

There was a lady walking in the alleyway. She appeared to be intent on selling her ass so that she could acquire her next round of heroin. She scared me, but she’s probably nice. Where would she be if she was not doing what she’s doing?

I felt compelled to get in my Ford, head for home, eyeballs looking steadily at the tremendous inner tubes attached all around the car, wanting to dive back into Anne Sexton’s experience, her complete poems, in my sleek and slightly dark den. Anne talks to me about all of the dangers, and she survived so many of them. She helps me think of surviving danger by putting it on paper, away from the soul.

Cover of "The Complete Poems: Anne Sexton...

Cover of The Complete Poems: Anne Sexton

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Rain, Rain, Go Away V. 1

A harmless, little, rusted-out, horse trailer is creeping in the middle. The light is red, he drifts toward my channel. The bastard’s asleep in his ‘67 Ford Pickup so I blast the horn, he jerks and stops. We go against the heavy resistance of the big hill heading up to the hospital. At the top, another red, and here comes that Ford. That dog is hunting rabbit. I have switched channels and whisper to God as I discover he has also switched channels when the trailer goes by, storming through the red at perhaps 60. He is big drunk. No other conclusion is possible. I’ve seen it. No use calling the cops because I could not know where he is. I whisper to God and ask that the Ford driver get whatever he might deserve and no one suffers for his Saturday morning drive.

Going to lunch, slightly peaceful, slightly rushed, I roll up behind a ‘70’s Chevy pickup, rusted out, with no original paint left, camper top on the bed swamped with chaotically piled junk ready to come out the back and land on me. He floors it on the green, his cargo rolls around. I cruise safely but do not whisper.

Late, after all of the day’s activity, double left turn lane, I’m on the right, and a late-model, white Chevy, twice as high as I am, with a special tire package, comes at me hard. He does not like me being on the right and he works hard and with intention to run me off the road. I stop short of tragedy and carefully get in behind him, way behind him. He is vigorously waving, perhaps being a smart ass, but I am whispering to God again.

“Where do all of these people come from, and why…Why, why, why?” I ask. Quickly, I realize my fault and I thank God or something, some power, that I am unreasonably still alive. Some power gave me a shield today and I am sitting there worried about the rain, which sure seems a bit too heavy.

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Rain, Rain, Go Away V. 2

The light is red, he drifts toward my channel. The bastard’s asleep in his ‘67 Ford Pickup so I blast the horn, he jerks and stops. That dog is hunting rabbit. I have switched channels and whisper to God as I discover he has also switched channels when the trailer goes by, storming through the next red at perhaps 60. He is big drunk.

Going to lunch, I roll up behind a ‘70’s Chevy pickup, rusted out, with no original paint left, camper top on the bed swamped with chaotically piled junk ready to come out the back. He floors it on the green, and his cargo rolls in volatile heaves. I do not whisper.

Late, after all of the day’s activity, a late-model, white Chevy, twice as high as I am, with a special tire package, comes at me hard with intention to run me off the road. He is vigorously waving, perhaps being a smart ass, but I am whispering to God again.

I am sitting there worried about the rain, which sure seems a bit too heavy.

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