Saturday, September 17, 2011

Maxing 20

 

icon of St Monica, patron saint of patience


Maxing 20

(a poem, written on my 49th birthday as I was heading home for cake)
patiently, patiently I motor home
the car before me maxing twenty.

But it is Sunday,
There is no hurry.
I bite my lip
and hold back my hand
from the horn.
He must be old.
I can not see him
but his glacial pace
speaks of age;
to flash my lights
or try to overtake
on the narrow streets
might give him a fright,
risk a crash.
Better to wait;
patience is a grace …

But why must he slow
for every oncoming car?
And hit hard the brakes
and yield to all who creep
from every side-street?
And why must every turn he makes
mirror mine in advance
without even the benefit
of an indicator light?

I grit my teeth
and deeply breathe
and remind myself
that this is Sunday;
there really is no hurry.
This car is the blessing of
mobility to this senior son;
and today's Gospel
spoke of forgiveness.
Perhaps even as I forgive
his snail like serenity
God will forgive my own
seething lack of grace.

At last an intersection
is reached
and the elder leader
goes to the right lane
while I slide to the left;
I glance right before I turn.
I finally see him:
no senior son
but a middle-aged one.

Who let's people like him
on the road?

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