09-28-2016, 05:35 AM
Missed Turning
Ever been struck
driving fast
long freeway stretches - journey’s all
route, purpose, schedule
destination nothing -
by a thought you missed
your turnoff some miles back
and as lettering inside that LST informed,
“It’s too late now?”
Rapid City, South Dakota
spring, seventy-seven
twenty-six years old
at the range, rolling
two plastic tubs with the forty-five
one-two, three-four, five-six
seven-reload-can I swap
fast enough to keep both rolling -
something like a wooden stake
seemed to gently pull up
from my head between shots
leaving a wedge-shaped space that said
“I should have a son here now
teaching him how
to do this.”
Not a perfect time to ponder
- finish the drill
safe and holster -
then turn that idea over
before its empty space filled up
with flying, code-controlling,
training, care of Documents.
First thought: damn,
heard of this.
Second, so I’m an animal after all
with instincts, biologic timers
all that jazz.
Interesting and, so what?
Then - and since, I never did retrace
a route back to a “marriage” exit
on my highway or
sneak out byway access roads
that run through bastardy
and child support -
how disappointed Dad must be
with my killing off a boy or two
that carry on his name as ghosts
in cities bypassed on
my self-regarding journey.
He never said.
Finally, as with real deaths, acceptance.
Road runs, tires spin
fuel injects, air mixes and combusts
engine turns, dead air exhausts
schoolmarm dashboard voice commands,
“Turn around!”
Then, after long enough, resigned,
“Recalculating.”
Missed turn, cities bypassed with
their murdered infant might-have-beens
all that remains is knowing
with acceptance, driving on
the journey’s all
recalculating.
Ever been struck
driving fast
long freeway stretches - journey’s all
route, purpose, schedule
destination nothing -
by a thought you missed
your turnoff some miles back
and as lettering inside that LST informed,
“It’s too late now?”
Rapid City, South Dakota
spring, seventy-seven
twenty-six years old
at the range, rolling
two plastic tubs with the forty-five
one-two, three-four, five-six
seven-reload-can I swap
fast enough to keep both rolling -
something like a wooden stake
seemed to gently pull up
from my head between shots
leaving a wedge-shaped space that said
“I should have a son here now
teaching him how
to do this.”
Not a perfect time to ponder
- finish the drill
safe and holster -
then turn that idea over
before its empty space filled up
with flying, code-controlling,
training, care of Documents.
First thought: damn,
heard of this.
Second, so I’m an animal after all
with instincts, biologic timers
all that jazz.
Interesting and, so what?
Then - and since, I never did retrace
a route back to a “marriage” exit
on my highway or
sneak out byway access roads
that run through bastardy
and child support -
how disappointed Dad must be
with my killing off a boy or two
that carry on his name as ghosts
in cities bypassed on
my self-regarding journey.
He never said.
Finally, as with real deaths, acceptance.
Road runs, tires spin
fuel injects, air mixes and combusts
engine turns, dead air exhausts
schoolmarm dashboard voice commands,
“Turn around!”
Then, after long enough, resigned,
“Recalculating.”
Missed turn, cities bypassed with
their murdered infant might-have-beens
all that remains is knowing
with acceptance, driving on
the journey’s all
recalculating.
Non-practicing atheist