Margaret questioned my examination of the dipstick
as if implying some camaraderie, which was subsequently confirmed
by my last-minute packing of unmentionables.
The horse was out of the gate by the time we boarded the vehicle
and I got it coming and going on the outbound portion alone.
My hearing aid’s usually on the wrong side for the cop to recognize:
“My foot must have reacted to the thumb embedded in my side,”
was the answer she said I gave to every question. But tomorrow
I could take a photograph at the Eisenhower pull-over
and tell the people with their stuck-up devices about the concrete I’d laid
back when thoroughfare was a route I still traveled.
Paul Reyns is an aspiring poet from New Hampshire with two poems currently published or accepted for publication. He enjoys skiing, birdwatching, and other outdoor activities.