• Poetry: Waiting


    by Harold O. Wilson



    The Model A sits half hidden behind the barn

    In the weeds half buried it rests

    No wheels

    No windshield

    Back seat gone

    Front seat in tatters


    By a wire one headlight hangs

    By grace the other stares down the path


    Watching the boy draw near

    Bare knees high-lifted in the wet weeds.

    The boy who will drive to unknown places

    Places real

    Places imagined

    Adventures real

    Adventures imagined and


    The sun perhaps today, Phaethon’s course, hot and enraged

    Mocking the gods

    The moon, chaos tamed, cool and soothing

    Or the stars, the very home of the gods, to pluck one-by-one

    And build a universe of worlds unknown.


    Watching the boy approach

    To drive

    To drive with fury the car long dead.

    To give breath to rust and metal and chrome

    Fire to its shattered innards

    Life to its waiting soul.



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