“I write poems for a stranger who will be born in some
distant country hundreds of years from now.”
Mary Oliver
I drum the steering wheel at
a stop sign,
to an old favorite song – “For
What It’s Worth” –
Buffalo Springfield speaking
to me, telling me
that it’s time to ‘stop’ and
ask ‘what’s that sound.’
My fingernails are just long
enough
to tap good staccato time on
the wheel of my Honda.
My eyes wish to close, to
take in the undiluted
acoustic guitar on the stage
of my dash-board,
but I am driving the car myself, after all,
this not being the future,
where I’m sure my car
would drive itself, but 2016,
with a soundtrack of my
choice and my eyes
scanning the highway for my
exit.
We all do this, in the here
and now,
keep physical time with songs
we love,
as if we were participating
in their performance,
anonymous auxiliary
percussionists
in every car on the way to
work,
an unseen community of musicians
an unseen community of musicians
banging leather wheels in Mercedes
Benzes,
gadget-filled dashboards of
police cars
with the indent of thumbs
from Motown-loving cops,
and the beat-up pickup, with
its torn steering-wheel cover,
ripped to shreds with age and
Led Zeppelin.
I’m sure the future is
better.
I’m sure you don’t have to
pay as much attention
to the highway, the road, the
pedals,
or even to the selection of
music during your ride.
I bet that you, reader, with
all the leisure you may enjoy,
all the independence you
treasure
in your automated world,
that some primordial part of
you yearns for a simple ride
with a favorite song, foot on
the floor,
and dents in your wheel made
by that drummer whom you’ll
never know.
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