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Remembrances of Driving



He was always taking roads he had not taken
Before or at least had not taken in years but
Almost always in prairie country, he did not like
His view obstructed by trees, still less the twists
Of mountain roads. Once, though, on a level
Straightaway with the Grand Tetons on his left,
He said, “This is mountain driving the only
Way I like it.” When he could he would avoid
Deserts, swamps, stony ground, anywhere
That crops could not be grown, tolerating
At most the dry farming country where strips
Of crop land alternated with fallow, likewise
He did not much like those valleys so wet
That grain had to be bagged to keep from sprouting.
I reckon that he liked his strangeness familiar,
Would study the differences in town water tanks,
The shapes of grain elevators, the many
Different ways of baling hay, subtle
Modulations in silos and milking barns.
He bypassed cities although he knew
I loved them with their book stores and movie houses
And would probably end up in one, rejecting
Most things he greatly valued, though
I wanted to please him but never ever could.

Years after he died I was driving below the
Sea of Marmora in Anatolia where the
Wheat combines still had six-foot swaths
Thinking of many uneasy childhood drives
When I saw a town with a tank, grain elevators,
And a minaret and wished him still alive
So I could tell him of that strange familiarity.

--J. Quinn Brisben

27 DEC 2004




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