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Cadillac
After waiting for the world’s longest train to pull its last molasses car through the crossing
the Cadillac that had idled ahead of my impatience drove to the main street in town
where smoke seeped from the undercarriage like dry ice the little man driving
could not ignore, his white hair blurring, his left turn abandoned, his car
ready to erupt like Vesuvius. He pulled into a parking lot where I’m sure
he did not need my help: men’s blood flows thick as motor oil, mine like barley soup,
and he was old enough to understand how trouble crouches in the backseat,
rich enough to afford a car as long as a train, someone who likes money and maroon.
I could have pulled up behind him and held out my empty hands
or offered a cell phone I scarcely know how to use, talked about how the morning sky was choking
on blubbery clouds but could make room for his car’s inexplicable effusion,
said turn off the engine, you’re too young to explode and that withered darling at home
would miss you. Your car has fizzled but you made it past the blinking red lights
and red bells that gave respite to your life’s boredom. Now you have
a problem and the train is mere speck. When bubble bath froths your fenders,
it’s a sign this Eldorado may not make it on the long road to Armageddon.
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Joanne Lowery’s poems have appeared in many literary magazines, including Birmingham Poetry Review, Eclipse, Smartish Pace, Cimarron Review, Atlanta Review, and Poetry East. Her most recollection is Jack: A Beanstalk Life from Snark Publishing. She lives in Michigan. |
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Date of Publication: 19 Oct 2008 |
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