I Remember How All The Cars Stopped

I remember how all the cars
stopped
in respect for Death
while I in my grandfather's procession
rode across Ashley, Patterson and
down Branch Street
past Star Gas and the Gurley
Tobacco Auction. Telephone wires stretched
like white spider webbing in sunlight
strung across the tops of poles.

I see his face in the clouds.
And I remember palm trees
pressed against the sky
Elephant Ears in front porch pots.

A swamp with water like sand.
White. Stagnating when we passed
on the road to Florida.

On State Highway Forty-One

Nothing endures, nothing is precise and certain… Perfection is the repudiation of that…inexactitude which is the mysterious inmost quality of Being. –H. G. Wells A Modern Utopia

We drove past a turtle crossing
the road I remember thinking
we should stop and take him home
I imagined putting him is a box feeding him whatever turtles eat
I thought I might stuff the box
with fresh grass
and name him Touché

Like the turtle I had when I was seven
the one my sister ran over
with her tricycle
crying for hours over poor
shattered Touché
but I said nothing
and we drove on
Past a car coming back up the road
I saw a buzzard
standing over smashed
broken pieces of turtle

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