Poem Of The Month: May 2013

ENGINE TROUBLE

The sputtering is always how it starts –

first you feel it, then you hear it –

then you feel and hear it as it grinds

itself, and you, and all your companions,

to a halt – no matter where, or when.

Sweet, sweet uninterrupted rumbling

can be swiftly silenced by a thousand

differing things, in as many differing

ways – what matters is that you’re stopped.

We’d curse all others, before we’d curse

ourselves, walking, as we do, four miles

back to the nearest pump, where we can

right the wrongs that others caused.

Old Gas Pump by Junior Libby