My truck cab is compact
But built for euphony.
I squeeze in for a ride,
Disc in hand
To fit my feeling,
Slide it in the player:
No place for sound to go
But to besiege me beautifully.
I don’t even know I am driving
Sometimes.
A splendid day.
Sun’s rays,
Monk’s notes,
And a healthy engine
Turn me
Half my age as I
Cruise the main drag.
No beer between my legs
But my fellows are using their
Turn signals
And eschewing phones
Out there.
Hardly does this bliss
Settle when a crabbed image
From our sick spirit
Troubles my sight:
Four rumpled men
With signs and staves
Shouting at girl
Ducking in a clinic door.
I want to blast my horn as I pass.
Backs to the road,
They stand a yard from the curb.
Heart attack, perhaps?
They could be ministering
To the poor
Instead of fouling this child’s day
And mine.
As I ball my fist
Another sound intrudes.
The cab is tight.
It’s Monk,
Hammering out
A dissonant smear
(Like that picket gang)
To break the ear’s ease
In half.
Like the porter’s knock,
To break the spell,
But of pleasure,
Not horror.
Either spell is
Chicanery in our
Quest for truth.
Monk, those notes
Were right.
I drove past
Silent
As one you suspended.