Bruce Cohen
“And immediately
Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:”
--Philip Larkin
We’d recently relocated from Oakland
& it was the first time, in decades, I’d driven
In snow. On this rural road in Coventry,
(The town established in 1712), slick & unplowed,
I semi-crashed into a snow bank, one tire submerged
In a shallow creek, the windshield cracked. I hadn’t
Even gotten around to buying a pair of winter gloves
Yet. These were pre-cell phone days. I glared
At my immobile automobile when an American truck,
A Chevy, stopped. A guy slammed his door, declared
I needed help. I shrugged at the obvious as he wedged
A two-by-four under my front tires, giving me traction
To get back on the road. I didn’t mean to insult him
By reaching into my pocket. We’re friends now,
He said, as he absorbed a second too long my expired
California license plate. I didn’t know it then but
Our sons were the same age, went to school
Together, same sports teams, Boy Scout troop.
By the next autumn we had a father-son sleepover in
An unseaworthy battleship at Battleship Cove: the reward,
A lousy merit badge mothers sewed crookedly on their boys’
Uniforms. Bob & I violated the Scout Code by smuggling
In nips: Bacardi for him, Johnny Walker for me, while
Responsible dads debated techniques of various knots
& ways to safely deep fry turkeys in metal trash cans.
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