Waiting for open-heart surgery in 2005, Pekin, Indiana - From Section III (Road Trips, Maps, and Unexpected Destinations) in the Book "Diabolical Seas", a Poetic Communique from New Orleans, La. 2004-2013

The house is cluttered with sound.
Mom and her sister watch Hope and Crosby
Bobbing and Binging their way to Zanzibar.

The TV acts like a vacuum,
It tugs fiercely on each of my senses,
Attempts to suck me in,
Pull me back upstairs,
I resist and retreat,
Plunging deeper into the basement,
A bit wary of webs and spiderlings,
Small creatures that dwell
In these shadowy depths.

Out of breath,
I climb a short flight of steps
Up and into the garage.
Here, at least, I can take refuge.
I turn on the light.
There is a small table and chair
It sits beneath two shelves
Filled with
Old tools, pesticides, oil cans,
And fan belts.

A pen and pad of paper wait here,
Placed expressly for my use,
Since the day of my arrival.
That was three months ago,
Three months, and counting…

Until recently the cold accompanied
The shadow creatures to their hiding places.
It has warmed since.
On this day,
I awaken to a tepid dusk.
A storm has raked its way across the skies.
We’ll get two sunsets this evening.

I want to open the garage door,
Dispersing claustrophobic inhibitions.
There is a car parked in my study.
At least if I open the door
It could contemplate its escape.

By contrast,
I am mired in a sticky pit
Of apprehension.
I am encased in a body,
Rusty, prematurely old,
And in much need of repair.

It reminds me of a time…
Just outside of Needles,
On the California/Arizona border,
One hundred and twelve degrees,
In the shade,
No shade,
Only a triple A card,
And no cell phone.
(There were few in those days.)

I hug a rocky shoulder of the
Transcontinental Interstate,
Broken down,
Stranded,
Watching an endless stream of cars
Fading in and out
Of the vast Mohave Desert.

The tow truck vultures,
In lazy circles fly,
Scavengers and saints,
Never long in spotting
The objects of their carnage.
One swoops in…

He knows a place,
Back in Needles,
For ten dollars more…
“Sure”, I say, and climb aboard.
Slung and towed seventeen speechless miles
To Sam’s Radiator Repair Shop,
Which by the sun’s slant on the horizon
Is only an hour away from closing.

I accept my fate,
Gut tight from dehydration,
No match for negotiation.
“She’ll have to come out.
That’ll be a hundred dollars, plus tax.”
I figure one sixty,
If I add the dinner and breakfast at
The Friendly Frontier saloon and diner,
And a bed at the Last Chance Motel.
I remember thinking,
I’m too far from home,
And this is hell!

Was it a lesson?
Everything experienced,
Like a pocket full of change,
Collected,
To be counted in times of need.
How does one
Ever
Truly prepare for the unforeseen?

I am in the garage writing poetry.
I am waiting for an operation.
I am once again at my childhood home.
Yet the familiar
Does not outweigh the uncertainty.
It does not counter the fact
That I am in dire need of repair.

Perhaps I should consider
A quick trip to Zanzibar.



Michael S. True
Spring 2005 last edit 7-2-13