It is an autobiographical poem and I wrote it last autumn. Since then I have been moving the lines around to get the right feel to the piece.
One
time, in Italy, did I ever tell you this?
It
was the holiday when the car engine blew up
and
we had to get the train home.
Well,
before all of that, we were stopped at the lights,
opposite
this man in a car wash,
as
bold as you please,
all
soaped up, having a shower.
This
is the third retelling
since
you arrived three days ago.
I
think this latest recounting,
has
been sparked by the men hand washing cars
just
now, as I filled up at the petrol station.
You
watched their red, chapped hands
dip
into buckets of cold water.
The
cutting November wind heralds more than the coming winter.
I am leaving you with Billy Bragg and Joe Henry singing The Midnight Special off their forthcoming LP.
The feel is 3D being there. In the bucket. In the fatigue and acceptance. In the bruised ache of memory.
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