I have enough times been the ampersand, the hitch between two vehicles the vehicle itself careening questionably up the mountain road, which is, in my opinion, poorly designed, a hazard. It is sometimes called the coast, the coastal highway, but never the cliff-side transfer whereby you take your life in your hands, or more literally the wheel in your hands, or the hands beside which you sit, the wheel by which many subtle gestures ensure your safe arrival. Anyhow, it seems to me a very poor choice of transit. However much we love vehicular independence, the illusion thereof. Or the glamour of regency ghouls. That golden age. Anyhow, the vehicle, she, why not, that has many times been me, and hardly splendorous, sinking dolefully, doefully, dutifully into the “lake,” rolling graceless over, eating up the “blurred yellow lines,” eating pavement, often graciously so. I have been the pinch of weather in the phenomenological space between you lovers, the compartment in which you exist hand to thigh. The crowbar in the garden rusting from strange use, with little ambition, who would throw such a thing there? And when I am no longer analogous, I go. Likely poorer and better off besides. Copyright © 2015 by Danielle Pafunda. Used with permission of the author. |
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