Driving a Point

It was late afternoon and my thoughts were arid when it struck me that I needed a new vehicle to drive my thoughts far enough, fast enough to the eyes and ears unknowingly awaiting them. A meticulous consumer, I did my homework, took my time, snapping reverse angle pictures of me behind each and every wheel, feeling the newness with each nostril and furrowed brow. I tried out a traditional, up market Sonnet first and – despite how many virginities had been lost in its back seat – it still felt more like my father’s than my own. The Ode was no better, enveloping the driver in thick clouds of vaulted purpose, only came with AM radio and was impossible to get parts and accessories for. The 180° rotating side mirrors on the Sestina were eye catching but seemed distracting to the driver on today’s winding roads and tempted oncoming traffic to admire itself. And while the Dylan Thomas signature model Villanelle looked like a joy to play with, I honestly didn’t know what I’d do with it, was aghast by how much it consumed and feared for its resale value. Towards the back of the lot was an endless sea of Haiku – three stroke wonders - which seemed cramped and even the full-sized Tanka left me unconvinced about how much leg room there really was. With a blood orange evening tumbling ripe towards the Earth, I bent to tie my shoes, scurried through a ditch to Green Street and let the incandescent night fade in to guide me, illuminating most of the street signs and cheap hotels between "here" and wherever "there" was, noting with interest one clap board place where “No” was blacked out on its sign vacancy sign, its steps crooked with time, a saxophone sighing through its open door.