MORNING COMMUTE, SUBZERO
Minus two on the car thermometer.
Out the window, it’s Kansas, as usual,
except the hawk over the river
is puffed up to twice its normal size
and is perched above a white rubble field
where the river used to be.
Minus two on the car thermometer.
The roads are dry, traffic sparse, not unusual,
except I come across a wrecker
tilting a banged-up Nissan onto its bed,
and ten miles later another, cranking up a Ford.
Had the cold itself pulled each car off its line?
Minus two on the car thermometer.
I’m fine, there’s nothing unusual,
except it’s clear, the world’s subtracted,
drained, an absence of something we depend on—
ruddiness, moisture. The air catches at my throat.
It’s the kind of day there’s someone on the local news
who, having dragged out an old space heater
to stay warm, plugged it into bad wiring
and ends up standing in the front yard
wrapped in a blanket agape as everything burns down.
Minus two on the car thermometer. There’s no disaster.
The world appears in almost every way the same.
Hi Dargie,
ReplyDeleteOnce again, your poem expresses something heartbreaking in an utterly unique way. The matter-of-factness of the tone of this poem is just right. The repetition of "minus two" and of "nothing unusual" suggests a sort of denial, and acceptance at the same time. I love the sounds of stanza 5, and also the awkwardness of stanzas 10 and 11 which seem to reflect the poor man standing awkwardly in shock outside his home. The river that is now a "white rubble field" alludes obliquely to climate change. Perhaps the only slight hiccup for me, is the "except it's clear" in stanza 8, since the temptation is to start to read that line as a description of weather, when that's not really how it's intended. But I love "the world's subtracted." I also was curious about "ruddiness" -- why that word?-- it's an interesting one, though, and its double-d and suggestion of rudderlessness. Well-done, Dargie! Glad we're all back :))
Dargie, as always, I enjoy reading your takes on the exotic locale of Kansas! What I love about this poem is your tone of nonchalance while describing evidence of invisible dangers around you and hence, all of us. Vasiliki has mentioned the danger of climate change as evidenced in the "white rubble field". The stranded cars evidence of the extreme dry cold, along with the puffed-up hawk. I love the line: Had the cold itself pulled each car off its line? Further down, you show us the impact on us as humans (though slightly indirectly) with the "someone" (such a nicely inclusive choice! It could be any of us) becoming homeless (something we are all ever on the verge of). Danger wraps itself around all of us, no matter how "normal" and "the same" our world may look. "Ruddiness" stopped me in my tracks as well...paired with moisture, I was wondering why not green? But perhaps ruddiness is the natural state of the landscape there? I love your choice of verbs in regards to the cars: tilting and cranking and pulled. I really like the repetition of the Minus two... line. I don't know how you feel about formal poems, but I kept thinking it would be fun to try this poem as a pantoum. The form may further accentuate the "everything's fine. Really." sort of tone you are striking in this version. The form of this poem is lovely as is, of course, but the pantoum would be something to consider if you wanted to have a few different forms in the Kansas sequence (I am recalling your parking garage poem!). Thanks for taking us on another leg of your Kansas journey! And my apologies for being so late in responding!
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