Ode to Rock and Roll
On a cool morning I helped my friend Bob collect rocks for his garden. We drove his pick-up to a rain-rutted road off the highway and rode a quarter mile, sheer wall on one side, sheer drop on the other, to the top of a mountain.
First we huffed and hefted, stumbled and cursed the two-man rocks. Then we hugged the one-man rocks to our chests like teddy bears. Finally, we filled the gaps with one-hand rocks until the bed sagged as if the truck would tip up on its tailgate.
No room to turn around, Bob, eyes flitting side-mirror to side-mirror, backed the truck down that rutted road. The radio blared rock-and-roll, blared the Rolling Stones. Oh, children. It’s just a kiss away, kiss away, kiss away.
I knew what the song said. The precipice is a kiss away. Death is a kiss away. It’s always just a kiss away. In the seat, eyes closed, dust and sweat coated my arms and chest, seatbelt flapped against my shoulder, I smiled. Oh, children. I was not afraid.
On a cool morning I helped my friend Bob collect rocks for his garden. We drove his pick-up to a rain-rutted road off the highway and rode a quarter mile, sheer wall on one side, sheer drop on the other, to the top of a mountain.
First we huffed and hefted, stumbled and cursed the two-man rocks. Then we hugged the one-man rocks to our chests like teddy bears. Finally, we filled the gaps with one-hand rocks until the bed sagged as if the truck would tip up on its tailgate.
No room to turn around, Bob, eyes flitting side-mirror to side-mirror, backed the truck down that rutted road. The radio blared rock-and-roll, blared the Rolling Stones. Oh, children. It’s just a kiss away, kiss away, kiss away.
I knew what the song said. The precipice is a kiss away. Death is a kiss away. It’s always just a kiss away. In the seat, eyes closed, dust and sweat coated my arms and chest, seatbelt flapped against my shoulder, I smiled. Oh, children. I was not afraid.
Richard Argo leads the Netwest prose group every second Thursday evening, 7:00 pm at Tri-County College in Murphy, NC.
I love this poem. Makes me think of that wonderful movie (two versions, French and American) of the guys with the load of nitro and the collapsing bridge. We don't all get to haul nitro, but like the guys in this truck, we find death "just a kiss away" each day in routine chores. I'm hearing impaired and the cochlear implant doesn't work all that well in a public park with a baseball game in the background, but I heard something in this poem that made me want to see it "written down." Thank you, sir.
ReplyDeleteGary Carden
This is for you, Gary. Enjoy, and thank you for your interest.
ReplyDeleteRichard Argo