Penny Blubaugh

Something I've been playing with -- a story in poems. Here's the first one. Others to follow.


Nights

Both George and Ivan
long for adventure, a path

to divine freedom.
They just don’t know where it is.

Tonight they slump on
the hood of George’s old, green

gas-guzzler Lois,
a 57 Chevy

with white sidewalls and
leatherette steering wheel

cover. The sky is
clear and country road black. Mars

is so red it glows
like a mad, baleful eye,

and maybe that’s a
comet, the kind you wish on.

“I’m going places,:
says George. Ivan’s heard it all

before. George says he’s
going places, but he still

works at Popo’s car
wash, still comes home every night

damp, with soap in his
shoes. Ivan points to the tail

of the comet with
his beer can, taps his fingers

on Lois’ warm
hood, says, “Did you use it? Did

you wish?” And George says
“Of course I did. I told you.

I’m going places.”
For one sharp minute Ivan

believes. They stare at
the sky and imagine France,

the coast of Peru,
the length of the Amazon.

Then Ivan laughs, gulps
his beer, drops his head against

Lois’ windshield.
“Sure George.” “Sure Ivan,”

George echoes, and the
boys settle in to see who

Can stay awake till
dawn.
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