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Sometimes It’s the Future
January 3rd,
twelfth grade snowy gray
six AM back to school-
the garbage truck noses over the top of
my street onto the glare ice,
doing a graceful sideways drift,
nudges my 1955 Chevy
loose from the curb, and now it is sliding also
backward down Stewart Road
and I am running before I know it along beside
and get the door open
with my car picking up speed and slewing
sideways toward me
but I spring up on the armrest and hook the wheel
with my bare foot and I am in, closing the door,
and suddenly it is Graduation
with snow blowing off the hood and I swing the wheel
getting no bite whatever, while I begin
worrying about the draft,
then crunch over the downhill neighbor’s
curbed Christmas tree which hangs
angel hair and tinsel on my side mirror,
and I am performing lazy
spins in the dull morning light while I get the clutch
in and consider marriage, and headlights,
and my God college, while I start the motor
for no good reason and collect
a garbage can or two under my newly painted
rocker panels, graze the power pole
at the
corner of Euclid
with one neighbor out
watching this now, a bag of his spent gift-wrapping
and turkey bones under my fender, and by the time
I stop placidly against a fire hydrant I am ready
to settle down, get a job.
I have every Christmas tree
on Stewart Road
crammed under me.
I turn on the radio.
I am ready.
Terry
Adams
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