I missed my car’s odometer
hitting the 100,000 mark,
despite my awareness
it was coming, that at 99,999
it was just a quick jaunt
to the grocer’s,
that I’d happily watch it roll,
purchase a bottle of champagne,
toast my Chevrolet’s achievement.
But then I got distracted by
a woman and her dog,
how sexy she looked
as she walked, wondering
if she was single,
if the calico kept her up
with its incessant, midnight
bark.
By the time I remembered to
check, the number read
100,001
and I cursed that damned diversion,
that it could take me years
to reach two hundred
thousand Ks,
that I’d have to drive
across the continent, say to hell
with the price of gas,
that my eyes will lock obsessively
on the dashboard,
in the hours I’m getting close,
that I’ll disregard the safety
of other drivers, pedestrians,
the moment I’m within
the final roll, creeping at
a turtle’s vexing pace
in NYC,
ignoring the crown of the Chrysler,
its delightful Art Deco,
the look of Lady Liberty
from the road along
the Hudson,
or if you find me in LA, that
Hollywood will fail
to get a glance,
that I’ll never know how right
the Beach Boys were, about
California Girls,
not daring to peek at their legs,
the swaying of their hips,
lest a second landmark moment
fall to waste,
and I’m mapping out another
winding trek,
through the blandest fields
imagined,
only risking that a scarecrow
or a farmer's lovely daughter
will snatch my gaze.
Andreas Gripp
March 31, 2023
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