Just because it's quiet, doesn't mean it's boring around this joint. I think I've narrowed down which one of these little jerks has been putting the holes in George's screen. The suspect: Somewhere dead center in the day's drive
In other news, I'm now in the business of taking this motorcycle apart (it's an '83 Honda CM400C), so if anyone's looking for parts, let me know. I've got 'em.
Thing is, I can't fit another car into my parking space. But I still need something to work on. Depending on what I learn while I'm in this project, I might seriously look for a bike with a side-car. Always wanted one of those. And definitely a Vespa--something really beat up that I can bring back from scrap-yard death. Ha cha cha.
Sebastian Matthews has a poem on Poetry Daily today that I'm totally feeling:
On the Road, between Toledo & Cincinnati, Late June
through this relentlessly flat state, the sky
darkens and fills up deepend blue,
and the word 'rain' comes to your lips
twenty seconds before the first waterballoon
droplets hit; and before you can think
or turn and say 'storm' here it comes
spilling out of its box like a load of grain.
The woman in the passenger seat
of a raggedly elegant convertible, top down,
laughs merrily, purse held over her head.
Motorcycles cluster under the awnings
of bridges, five, six, a whole family of Harleys:
Middle Americans for a brief spell
hobos, gathering around the fire
of manageable happenstance. We'll all
make it through. No twister coming to life
out of the yellowing swirl. No pile-up crash
in our cards. The rain subsiding, wipers
knocked back to intermittent, you drive on
through the burgeoning heat: crows
congregating in the backyards of trees,
fireworks stockpiling in the beds of pickups,
young girls towed behind speedboats
in inner tubes, shouting to each other
as they pass over the rotting corpse
of a deer that, a year-rounder told,
finally fell after a long winter
through the melting ice and settled
uneasily on the lake bottom.
Somewhere dead center in the day's drive