I couldn’t get a ride out of town
I couldn’t get a ride
back into town, and it was cold

getting dark
so I went into a wrecking yard
crawled into the back seat
of a ’39 Chevy

when I opened my eyes
a caravan of dew
was crossing a velvet terrain
back of the old front seat
each drop quivering under its burden
of morning sun 

I now realize how rare it is to see
that caravan from afar
apart from it
lying in the back of an old car
in a wrecking yard in Kansas
in winter
without a dollar in your pocket

it came with a feeling of happiness
being solitary, able to watch
each wobbling dewdrop
carry its sack of sunlight
across that old velvet seat

when I finally got a ride
from a farmer and his wife
we were quiet
listening to the tires
it felt familiar between us, as if we were
the only people in the world
who knew each other

I was glad for the heater
and watched the passing fields
thinking how different it was
when you were out in it, prairie wind
came off the snow in sharp points
froze the moisture from your breath
on the fur around your parka hood
numbed your fingers
when you pulled them from your trigger-finger mittens
before you could get your canteen out

but from the car
the wintry landscape went by
like a movie, on its own,
birds distant specks
scattered across white sky.

That severe cold was new to me
when you were out in it
but had a kind of absolving beauty to it
from the warm car.

“Where you from, son?” the man asked.
He had a healthy redness to his cheeks
and strong fingers that guided the wheel gently.

 “California,” I said. 
“Bit different here, hunh?” he said,
giving me a slight smile. 

“Yeah,” I answered. “So flat, without trees
I felt a little trapped at first,
being so far from the ocean. But now
looking across a field
I’m starting to get the same feeling 
I used to have looking at the sea.”

“I remember when I first saw the ocean,
on the ship overseas.” he said. “I was mostly scared,
but everything got wider.” His wife in the back 
didn’t say anything, just letting things be
seemed to hold us together somehow.
We listened to the tires some more.

“I got a Eisenhower jacket . . .” the farmer
continued softly, laugh lines radiating fine spokes
at the corners of his eyes, “Hangin’
in the closet, one a them Big Red One
patches on the shoulder.”

His war was over of course,
however it might’ve still been playing
inside him, but we both knew another war,
initially rumored to be Laos,
was coming.

“What’s your M O S, son?”
“I’m a radio operator,” I said,
“in a rifle platoon.”
“That damned radio,” he said.
His comment surprised me
but said a lot. “Yeah,” I said
thinking of how heavy it got
pressing on your back all the time
along with all the other stuff you had to carry.

“’Specially when you have to run,” the farmer said.

His eyes passed something into mine.
a cartridge of grateful sorrow
locked into the breech of time

Neither of us realized it was already too late
for a repeat, the illusion
of fighting for your country
as in WWII, was already obsolete, incense
and draft cards about to be lit.