Why would a tow truck driver in the middle of the Canadian woods care that the man
next to him was a poet?
He’d gotten the call, drove an hour and picked up a broken-down car.
He had another hour to drive it to a garage.
The poet sat in oily air, and thought moose, hills, wind and twilight, bands of existence.
The driver saw the road, and thought about the hours back to his tow station.
Why would a coffee and doughnut waitress care that the man across the counter was a poet?
She doesn’t know he’s thinking about her stooped shoulders, tired face, imagining her single-mother life.
Yes, poets are on the edge, alone, in tow trucks and cracked restaurant seats.
Eugene “Gene” Novogrodsky, late October 2013