Driving Part 2

 j.lewis aka Jim Lewis

 


Jim Lewis behind the wheel of his mini Cooper which he drove for years

By Jim Lewis

What could have possibly made me love driving? Well, it started when as a young child, I watched my dad driving his pickup. I knew that whenever we got in that truck, we were going somewhere fun. Without putting too much psychology into it, let me just say that there are three specific things that I love about driving. One – whether it’s to the grocery store or to a favorite beach, it’s always somewhere fun. Two – the sense of mastery of something so potentially dangerous. Who wouldn’t want that feeling? And three – the sheer thrill of speed. Whether it’s 5 mph sitting on your dad’s knees “learning” to drive, or 120 mph across the unregulated deserts of Nevada (that was another time!), there is no feeling like it. None.
 
The poems I’ve written about driving stem from both personal and imagined experiences, often combining them as a thought experiment. Abandoned puppies, a BMW motorcycle with a sidecar, watching the speedometer climb higher and higher—these lend themselves readily to comparisons, analogies, humor, and flights of fancy. Which pretty well describes me as a person and as a poet.
 
 driving in fog
 
the late hour vaguely remembered
the early rising, painful and slow
 
there's somewhere i must be—
a place, a person of importance
 
key to ignition is more reflex
than willful action
 
backing into the street
feeling my path to the highway
nothing is focused, nothing clear
 
visor a poor shield against
relentless morning sun
pulsing through the windshield
 
this is dangerous, i tell myself
madness multiplied by a million
driving through the fog in my brain
 
(previously published in my book as if a caress)
 

 
road trip
           for Susana Case
 
let it never be said of me
that i turned down a chance
to get behind the wheel
of my favorite automobile
which would be, of course,
whatever i'm currently in
(though faster is always better)
 
open road, open mind, no maps
no gps, no worries. i don't need
a destination, a target, a schedule
those will all work out on their own
 
give me a full tank of gas,
snacks and sodas enough
to get me across another state
 
give me that and high sierras,
nevada uninhabited for miles
red rocks across new mexico
cornstalks through kansas
row on row on row
 
every state's got something to see
something that becomes a part of me
rolling cross-country on cruise control
windows open and music blasting
baby, i always feel most alive
when my car and i are in overdrive
 
(previously published in my “april with friends” series)
 
 
just me and the music
 
stretching into the night
mottled black and gray
punctuated by the nonsense code
of dashes and dots
the freeway hums against the beat
of the radio
 
my free foot
the one not on the gas
keeps time
while i, unabashed
force the high harmony
to fill the pickup cab
 
no one there to care
if i miss a word or two
break to falsetto
when the notes move too high
or cough
when the bass beckons me
and i
silly tenor
try to slide down
somewhere i only go
when i have a cold
 
but i don't have to think
don't have to miss you
don't have to worry
about tomorrow's early alarm
or taxes or children
or anything
 
no
tonight
on this near empty four-lane
there is only me
and the music
 
(from a clear day in october, E&GJ Press, 2016 )
 
 
a flash of red
      for Laurel
 
red is the default color of sin
of excitement, danger
anger, blood, and passion
 
so why would anyone
who loves breakneck speed
want a car of any other hue
 
drop in a hurst transmission
five speeds meant to fly
who cares about zero to whatever
 
just jump in and buckle up, buckle up
the road is screaming our names
hungry for the roar of that 427
 
we'll fly arrow-straight across nevada
through the mountains of utah, shifting
like hands and pedals and sticks
 
were made for nothing but the hairpins
the only thing anyone will remember
is the flash of red and the thunder
 
as we lift off into forever
you, me, the thrill of freedom
all wrapped up in a little red car
 
(previously published in my “april with friends” series)
 

 
dream wheels
           for Patrick Duquette
 
the only photo of my old bmw sidecar
is a blurry polaroid. color of course
which hardly counts given the muted
and unintended vignetting - a gift of time
 
but my memory knows every detail
of the cycle and the sidecar
rattles the inside of my cranium
like the engine's thunder rattled the inside
of my helmet on the days i wore one
 
feels the insane pull and push of cornering
on three wheels - every inch of the turn
a contradiction to the normal lean-in
of a meticulously crafted beast, now yoked
to a playpen for my playmate, my passion
 
i only need to close my eyes to fly away
down open roads, no schedule to keep, no cares
no maps, no compass, just me and my love
singing loud and off-key to steppenwolf
     "Looking for adventure
      And whatever comes our way"
 
i slip the photo back in the drawer
feeling as lost as that bmw must have felt
the day the sidecar came off for good
 

 
speedometer
           for Nanette Waller
 
sitting in a shiny new car
engine on, idling smoothly
speedometer reading zero
there's an open road ahead
 
seems like no time at all
to get from zero to ten
and you're ready to roar
put that gas pedal down
 
then mom and dad interrupt
put the brakes on, warning
about dangers hiding between
ten and the anxious twenty
 
it's hard to hold back, hard
to be cautious when you know
your engine can handle speed
you blink and there's twenty
 
suddenly, you're on the on ramp
picking up steam, revving through
every gear like a born natural
thirty, forty, and fifty fly by
 
you briefly smile as each number
registers your progress, marks
important shifting phases until
you look again at the speedometer
 
and it says seventy. yes, seventy.
you ease up on the gas, wondering
what's the point of hurrying now
eighty, ninety, one hundred will come
 
but let them take their time
let this sports car coast a bit
everything says it's all downhill
sit back and enjoy the scenery
 
you want to stay at seventy a while
tap the brakes to slow the ride
but no matter how hard you try
speedometer just keeps climbing
 
memories of things you passed
many of them blurred, like the trees
and flowers you almost stopped for
places you meant to go but never did
 
will keep you company as far ahead
as your speedometer will climb
until at last it hits the point
that marks your final mile
 
(previously published in my “april with friends” series)
 
 
station stop
 
no one understands
how one driver
in one car
stopped at one station
on one road
could possibly not notice
one favorite puppy
left behind
as the fueling was finished
money surrendered
doors closed
and tail lights vanished
down the road
 
just like i don't comprehend
how i could be standing here
head cocked quizzically
watching your exhaust
as you fade
 
white stripes
like strobe lights
reflecting on your bumper
 
(previously published in Verse-Virtual, November 2015 issue)
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