stopping by woods


Somewhere in the air of a subway cabin

Or a party hors d’oeuvres or the unheard cough

Of a patron at “Tea and Sympathy,” a tiny pathogen

Made its way to me, and lodged in the back of my throat.

And there it sat for a few days before taking action

Finally coming into its own, last night

I saw it for what it was, and thought

I have to get home to my baby.

Two hours north of her, however, the skies opened up

And I knew it was going to be a race between

The twin goals of Nature’s biggest and smallest;

Thousands of miles of sleet on one side and

The tiniest microbe I can imagine on the other

On a mountain between us, on tops of two hills

My car hit a patch of ice, and stayed there

With the front wheel spinning, going about one mile

An hour.

Ghosts of past journeys with the same car

Whizzed past, blurs of red in warm seasons,

Barely noticing its future self struggling for just

A few more inches, and each revolution I repeat,

I have to get home to my baby.

My girl is blonde and 35, the daughter of a tyrant

And a queen, and knows how to give relief

With the solidity of one and the milk of the other.

With such a blizzard, you can’t see much but the

Faint shimmering of the sky in the South, no doubt

Caused by some obvious white blue eyes.

The snow turned to rain and the rain turned to misery

And a trip usually two hours reserved a block for nine.

Even as book read aloud spoke of the ancestors we needed

250 from year 1800, sixteen thousand from fifteen hundred

And how they all craved each together at precisely the right time

To produce you

And me

And whatever is inside you

It was a number high enough.

0 thoughts on “stopping by woods

  1. Lisa

    hey that’s great! you give good verse … my favourite lines were these:
    “Barely noticing its future self struggling for just/ A few more inches, and each revolution I repeat,/I have to get home to my baby.”
    …a tad self-conscious maybe, but there’s some music there…

  2. Ian

    Just an experiment whilst sick. I wrote a normal blog and I accidentally did something to the margins that made it look like poetry, so I went with it.

  3. flaco

    The precipice is a good place to be my friend! I read your verses at 7 this morning, as I sat in my cubicle. It was about 60 degrees outside down here in Kackalak, so the black ice seemed a million miles away. Glad you got there safe, sorry it took so
    damn long.
    As I type, I’m down at the pub watching the Heels
    rip the top off can of whoopass. Good things.


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