Sunday, November 17, 2019

AT YURIEN’S GARAGE

We dutifully lined up for latte & sticky buns
at Yurien’s old Forest Knolls Garage.
Memories collided with time at warp speed.
Don would’ve snorted and scoffed—
a fucking boutique in his garage?
Axelgrease-laced beer was more his swill.
Where gas-pumps once stood,
islands of organic produce bloom
in ecstatic gentrification.

At the trailer court, someone lights up.
Some things never change.
The skunk odor takes me back.
Everyone’s looking rough around the edges,
Both young and old—there’s no escaping it.
The lattes obviously aren’t working.

Once, in front of Yurien’s Garage,
I got caught up in a swarm of bees,
my long hair became a net.
As I swept past the gas station sideways,
my red mare developed wings.
Don, with his Lucky Strikes
rolled up in a teeshirt cuff, ciggie in hand,
scratched his head as she danced sideways
right into the gas bay and out the other side
while the swarm, in an uproar,
fiercely protected their queen.
Like many, they were looking for new digs.
Such sweet dreams were on the move,
but Don’s greener pastures had turned to ash.

11/17/19



First draft
We line up for latte & sticky buns
at Yurien’s old garage.
Memory collides with time at warp speed.
Don would’ve scoffed—
a boutique in the garage?
Axel grease laced beer was more his swill.
Where gas-pumps once stood,
islands of organic produce bloom
in expensive ecstasy.
At the trailer court someone lights up.
The skunk odor takes me back.
Everyone looks a little worse for the wear,
Both young and old alike.
Rough nights were had all round.
Once I got caught up
in a swarm of bees on my red mare
as I rode past the gas station,
my horse developed wings
and danced sideways into the gas bay
as the swarm protected their queen,
sweet dreams on the move,
looking for new digs.
Don’s greener pastures,
turned to ash and loam.

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