A Moving Vehicle
When the squirrel crossed the road in front
of the Driver’s Ed car, my foot fumbled
the brake. I wasn’t ready, was yet to learn
the parts of a metaphor: tenor and vehicle.
The tenor is the thing itself, and the vehicle
takes us away from it to something else,
but the tenor is still singing in a high, vibrant
voice in the backseat, maybe warming up
in the cab on the way to the opera house,
and the cabbie is transported to his homeland,
a particular ritual involving keening, grief.
Somehow they make it to and through the light
without an accident, neither of them paying
sufficient attention to external reality, but it’s green,
the light, and not raining, and the tenor needs
to get there by three, so there isn’t much traffic,
and the vehicle is in good operating condition,
a requirement of the license; the brakes are good.
The squirrel is a rare one, black, with an airy tail
reminiscent of a feather duster. The dispatcher
brings the cabbie back from Africa to his next
fare, but the tenor doesn’t see it coming
down the telephone pole, a shadow or a hand.
| Kathleen Kirk |
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