Labor Day

•

It’s hard to see, so many
Grasshoppers & bumble bees
Splattered across the glass,

As I keep the ass-end
Of the logging truck
In front of me at a distance

I hope is safe. Ready to down shift,
I listen for the clatter of the jake
& wait for brake lights to flash red.

Instead, the driver slows, his chromed
Playboy bunny mud flaps show
This is a gypo-load of pecker poles

Signaling a right-hand turn
At Clearwater Junction, probably
Bound for the Seeley post plant.

We’re still half an hour from home.
The setting sun’s glare obscures
This smeared & pitted windshield

When thunder broadcasts the earthy
Smell of rain—cool—followed by
Plops of dime-sized, intermittent

Drops that blossom to an onslaught
That’s almost hail, a summer
Downpour my wipers can’t blade,

Reminding me of swimming the deep
Holes in Petty Creek as a kid, eyes wide
Open—blurry blind—trying to see.

I ease off the accelerator & ride
The ridges—avoid the ruts flowing like streams—
No edgy desire to hydroplane—I must be

Losing my testosterone. At times
It seems insane the way we live this life
Inside our ideas, building our dreams,

While we stay between the lines
& worry about numbers—obsessed with
The operation of our machines.