Parking-Lot PoetryBlog / Produced by The High Calling
L.L. here with Random Acts of Poetry. Stuck on the parkway. That's where I was when I had two reactions. One, annoyance. Because after dropping the kids off, this was supposed to be my home-alone day, and I was about to spend it in an old Subaru, doing time in six miles worth of construction delay. I sighed and gripped the steering wheel. Then I had a second thought. I'd been musing on the word hibernate and a poem began to form. I couldn't wait to get home to write it down, and I started to fidget. This was going to be a long six miles. Then it occurred to me that I could pilfer the bag of kid-notebooks sitting on the passenger seat and even find a brand new pen in the funky color of my choice.
I carefully stole (I mean, permanently borrowed) a sheet of paper from a dark blue notebook, flicked open a bright green pen, and began. This all reminds me of Ann Kroeker's anecdote in Not So Fast, about people in other countries who bring along picnic baskets and make the most of events that are the equivalent of spending a day at a Department of Motor Vehicles. For me, it was a kind of picnic to enjoy six miles of standstill traffic by penning a poem. In fact, the six miles went so fast (or I wrote the poem so slowly), that I soon found myself wishing I could sit for just a few more minutes. But it was time to exit and get back to 55 miles per hour.
Bird on Hand Statue photo by Elizabeth O. Weller. Used with permission. Post by L.L. Barkat.
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