040308 30something/30 To The Residents
To the Residents of 318 Whitehorse Road,
©2008 by Raymond Daniel Medina
As it happened, Lexington lay directly
between Savannah and Asheville.
We saw in that a chance to visit
a childhood decades gone. I showed her my magic,
opening the car window as the song of cicadas
spilled from my mouth. An invitation to dance
with borrowing lungs the sweet humidity
of the Carolina pines.
We stopped for food and directions. A man dusty
with the day's work took in our story
with a thrill at the task. Called his friend at the
Firehouse
to direct us. A confirmation of Southern hospitality.
An exception I wanted to remember from
a childhood consistently betrayed.
As we pulled up across the street, the last film of
dusk
receded, leaving us in milky darkness. Me talking to
my aunt in Asheville.
She waiting patient, peaceful. Your dogs barking the
soundtrack
to a movie credited by our arrival. You and your wife
appeared
in bedclothes, gray hair mussed. Too much of
yourselves exposed,
you climbed the only fence on the block to find out
what we were doing there.
What ch'all doin' here?
Did ya car break down?
Are y'all lost?
Did y'all need directions somewhere?
I'd be happy ta help.
'Jdya come here ta talk onna phone?
Just want ta know what y'all're doin here's all.
So ya not lawst?
Don't need nothin'?
Just. . .sittin' here?
Y'all're just gonna sit here?
Don't worry, I'm not the law.
Just wonderin' what yer doin' here.
Just want ta make sure y'all don't need nothin'.
Sure I can't get y'all somethin' – a mountain dew,
a sprite, some gas – just. . .wonderin'
What - the - fuck - are – y'all – doin' - here?
As if it were scripted, the sound of a car's idling
engine
had awoken a thing in you that sleeps most days.
Somewhere in your small fenced-in mind
you forgot you were talking to your masters.
That southern gentility calls for respect, or at least
manners.
That Christ-loving folk owe the same debt of
compassion
your bumper stickers demand. That we were the only
chance
you'll ever have to eat your daily bread. You forgot
your life
is a car stopped outside our house.
Your wife told us this was the reason you kept guard
dogs.
I looked at the two small fluffy white things barking
in the pen in the pen of your yard. Smirked at the
country suburbs
where brick's replaced by gate. Agreed they looked
particularly
vicious. She told me if she let them loose they'd eat
me alive.
I thought of Roots and Kunta Kinte
and instead of German Shepherds
or Rhodesian Ridgebacks,
your tiny-fanged terriers yipping at my feet.
I thought of saying more as you both snickered
and heeled your way home having lost the trail
but wanting to walk in the way
of the man my momma raised me to,
I told you we'd be fifteen minutes
and wished you a good night.
And, well, this is an elaboration of that –
to wish you a good night
should you choose
to continue to sleep
through the decades of days
that invite you to walk
in a world where you're not
the only one who's upset
the neighborhood has gone
to the dogs.
____________________________________________________________________________________
You rock. That's why Blockbuster's offering you one month of Blockbuster Total Access, No Cost.
posted by raymond daniel @ 2:59 PM
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