TOUGHNESS LESSON

I admired Danny Rambler. Of all
the boys in our school (grades
one through eight -- I was in second)
he was the toughest.
Not the biggest or the strongest,
but rough-edged, solid, the first
to take a dare. You could imagine
him jumping off a roof and bouncing
right up. He had an easy laugh,
the kind that made the teacher
smile even when he spelled
"friend" wrong for the third time.
Not even Henry Cassel picked
on him. I never saw him in a fight;
nobody would have been that stupid.
That's why that afternoon at recess
when the older boys were throwing
rocks into a big puddle on the playground
and one of them by accident hit Danny
on the head and he came in the door
holding his hands over the blood
that dripped to the floor and he was
crying just a little bit, I saw
that there are limits to how
far toughness will take you.
   

IT'S NOT ROAD RAGE

It's not road rage. Call it
intense irritation. It happens
when I look in the rear view
mirror and see a tail-gater
on my tail, so close I can
read intense impatience written
on the driver's face. I check
my speed. I see I'm moving
fast enough, right at the posted
limit or even some above.

Here is my temptation -- to slow
down, slow down even more.
I'll teach him (or her)
a lesson is my thought.
And sometimes -- I confess it --
I do exactly that. But other times
I fantasize: I hit the brakes
real hard, The guy behind me
rams my rear, is clearly
in the wrong, will have to pay
a fine, bear the cost of all repairs,
and pay my whiplash bills
for therapy, months of it.

I know, I know. This is crazy talk.
It isn't, as I said, road rage.
But it's getting pretty close.
   

AN INVITATION (updated)*

The Auto Repair Shop

I'm going into town to get the oil
changed on my car; the shop is near
the strip mall, just a mile or so from here.
I shan't be gone long -- you come too.

They'll find, I'm sure some other things
they'll say that must be done,
like brakes and tires and batteries and on and on and on.
I shan't be gone long --

On second thought, I probably will --
but why don't you come anyway.

*A parody of Robert Frost's "The Pasture"

LEARNING TO SPIT

Our house stood at the top
of Temperance Hill where

the road to Lititz intersected
with Fruitville Pike. Every day,

at precisely seventeen minutes
after five, a grey car would

arrive at the stop sign. The driver
would open his door, lean out

and spit on the macadam. My
mother, her face twisted

in disgust, explained that
the filthy habit of chewing

tobacco required frequent
expectoration. When she

wasn't looking, I'd sneak into
the kitchen, grab a handful

of raisins and tuck them
in my cheek. I practiced

by pretending to drive
a car and opening a pretend

door at a pretend stop sign.
Spitting, I was sure, was part

of what it meant to be a man.
My mother just didn't understand.