Ridin’ The Devil’s Heatwave

So first, in the morning when I am asked
why I polish the dishes so carefully
after they are washed,
I respond, “it’s to make sure
that they are seen that way
once they are there
in the cupboard.” There is
no answer to that; there
can’t be one.

So second, quickly, dimly
I recall seeing Donna dance to
“Sweet Hitchhiker” back in ’71, ’72;
what I recall most is not her hips
but the song itself, how it drove her,
how it drove all the girls wild in
the class; what I recall is
the sound– up loud, barking
freely and fiercely at me, at us.

So, my life dribbles away
from me, in small chunks.
So my memory spits up
an occasional fact, clear
as an old 45 on a turntable
spinning to beat the band
until it ends. So the rest
of me plops, tumbles around it;
meat in a hot stew pot.

So I give up
control and sit back to listen
and learn that I have forgotten
so much lore and legend of my past
it’s a wonder I can sit still
and not look for it everywhere,
and I can’t; so I do. Sweet hitch hiker
intact, like Donna’s hips. The dishes
thrashed clean to tolerance. Me:

silent now,
a wave before it breaks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T