Ode on 1355 Miles
I just got back to Chicago after taking a road trip with my father. It wasn’t a vacation–We had to go to central Florida to transform my grandmother’s apartment into a collection of boxes. Over 36 hours, we traversed most of the southeastern United States and went through the bulk of Otis Redding’s discography. I broke up the listening with a couple of Silver Jews CDs, as lately the band’s been unable to get away from them for more than a few days. (We were even moved to try our collective hand at “Sometimes a Pony Gets Depressed” at our last show. Not sure if we’ll be bringing that out again any time soon, though…)
As a result, I decided to respond to this experience with a rather David Berman-inspired poem–the first I’ve written since high school. Enjoy!
Ode on 1355 Miles
When I lower my window three-quarters to the door
My father responds with the same descent, as if
To preserve some symmetry to the car,
To channel a life of chemical equations to manageable resolution.
As a boy, he found the smell of gasoline
Exotic. I learned this when I told him at
Six-seven-eight years old I liked the gas station
For this same reason.
I’ve heard him fetishize the automobile
In just one way since,
When old ones show up in period films like
Keepsakes of an old tenant whose house we now live in,
Whose sturdy chair pieces he can’t bring
Himself to throw away.
One day, after all, you may need the lumber
To fix your own furniture or erect
A pyre to incinerate male menopause.
I think humanity would be better served if my
Father’s conception of the car were the only one:
Practical, a tool, only beautiful in hindsight
Or beautiful when it isn’t moving.
Harbored at the gas pump, the three-quarters space
Allows a nearly-Cinerama frame for
Viewing the women of the American South:
Bronzed year-round, with even adult features seeming
Sculpted in baby fat.
I imagine if one were to fuck them
It would leave an indent like a car crash
Remnant that would quickly self-repair, like the
Liquid metal cyborg in Terminator 2.
For ten months, I had roommates whom I never saw.
We had different schedules, so the apartment would
Belong to one of us at a time; we left our rent-
Thirds on the fridge and cleaned up in private.
I imagine a family could operate like that,
With memories and DNA
Instead of chores.