Famous Blue Raincoat

1.

Not everything feels safe and secure, least of all
the arms of the poem. It takes a great deal of trust
sitting in the passenger's seat of the verse. There is no time
to consult the Ouija Board or Tarot Deck; we'll miss the bus
and succumb to the mundane in a cold, New York minute.

The poet isn't licensed to drive anymore than the muse. If we
try we'll both get lost and constantly fight. Driving the poem
would be something like misreading a foreign road sign
that actually meant "STUPID TOURIST". We'll get it
half-right at best; become over-confident in our own choice
while side-stepping the poem's voice.

Baby,I've been here before.

2.

We'll find our self lost and you'll refuse to stop and ask
directions at a dilapidated country store with the faded sign
flailing from one hook like the shredded curtains through broken
glass. We won't agree on anything. I'll ask why you won't stop
and ask for help. You'll say "It doesn't appear safe. Look,
the concrete is cracked". I'll say, "but isn't it dirt?" You'll say
"the poodle on the porch looks mean". I'll say, "but isn't it
a parrot?" You'll explain that it was a circus poodle trained
to sit upright on a perch and peck like a bird.
I'll say(while looking back), "Oh...".

You'll explain you're really not thirsty now, that there will be
another store right up the road somewhere. I'll ask, "but didn't
the sign say, 'josjf gut wounf nosluro'?" (which actually means,
"STUPID TOURIST!last stop for 82 miles through a tangle
of two dozen twisting-road-canals")? You'll say, "yes, it means
'there's a safer store where the concrete isn't cracked and the poodle
doesn't peck right up the road, somewhere'".

"Oh...".

3.

The poem is rolling its eyes from the backseat now.
It wants to throw on its old blue rain coat, torn at the shoulder
so no one will recognize it; get out, hitchhike, go clear. It knew
this was a bad idea from the start, like when an engineer
does heavy drugs and designs country roads to resemble two
dozen twisting-canals. He hates STUPID TOURISTS who don't study
enough to properly translate his language because they think
they are so damn smart.

The poem wants to ask us if we'd like to know a shortcut
to get home, but knows it would only translate as "sthgor
woywory-whouety?" to us. We'd give each other 'that look'
as I retrieve the Poetry-to-English translation book. It
would be the first time we've agreed in days because we're
so damn smart. The poem keeps its mouth shut, slinks further
down in the seat and picks up its book.

You consult the map while drinking coffee from the thermos
because you're thirsty. I feign support and act like I'm not hungry,
while wondering if I've packed enough changes of clothes
to last until we get there, and if I have appropriate shoes
for back-versed roads.

4.

I fantasize about service station bathrooms.

5.

The poem is hidden behind the book now, its old blue raincoat
on with the collar pulled up. I wonder why and try to point
this out but you have more important things on your plate:
a shortcut home through two dozen twisting-road-canals.

The poem coughs and turns the page.

6.

I'm beginning to feel thinner and rounder through the middle,
like an aggravated egg, until i realize I have to use the ladies'
room. You point out several suitable bushes and I ask
what I'm supposed to use for...you know. You shrug and suggest
leaves. I demand your handkerchief while the indignation swells
thick between us. Decorum is maintained for appearances sake.

The poem has had enough, gets out to stretch its legs -  
lights a Louixs, takes a walk, and doesn't look back.

7.

I note it gets dark quicker in foreign countries. You nod silently.
It's been hours and I wonder if it's returning as I prepare the back
seat for sleep. You wait up all night behind the steering wheel
wondering if you should have stopped and asked.

8.

The poem sleeps in its warm desert bed, wondering if we're having fun yet.

~