Waiting
Waiting
by Harold O. Wilson
Black
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
Waiting.
By a wire one headlight hangs
By grace the other stares down the path
Waiting.
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
Unimaginable.
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.
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.
Poetry by Harold O. Wilson ©2011 – intended for on-line reading only. All inquiries for re-prints and questions should be directed to wilsonwritings@gmail.com