A Selected POEM from Approaching shore RON THOMAS WRITER
Traveler Ron Thomas Writer
Fishing trip Trinity highway west of Weaverville – man and bedroll beside the road huddled against November. Ron Thomas Writer Let’s pick him up, Bill says. Ron Thomas Writer He’s between us in the truck. Tell you guys right off I’m just out of state prison. Ron Thomas Writer Bill’s eyes flash concern or is it me feeling edgy? Ron Thomas Writer Past Junction City we pick up speed. River glints through evergreens. Ron Thomas Writer Beside me shaggy Traveler’s face creased, lined like an old topo map, smile a ramshackle fence, smells of sweat, damp earth, clothes the color of dust. Where you headed? I ask. Ron Thomas Writer Going to the coast to see my kids. Got their names tattooed on my back. Ron Thomas Writer I try casting questions, light and gentle like fly-line on slow gleaming water. Ron Thomas Writer I ask about lock-up food, gangs, life in the yard. Ron Thomas Writer Man’s eager answers punctuated Ron Thomas Writer with expletives like merit badges goddamned dog food… like combat ribbons kept my ass clear of gangs… Ron Thomas Writer With each question Bill gives the sidelong glance my mother used to when I was out of line. Ron Thomas Writer What were you in for? I ask. Ron Thomas Writer Bill leans over the wheel, stares at me. The question hangs mid-air while a big-rig towing a bulldozer thunders toward us, bulldozer crouched on a flatbed trailer like a huge yellow mantis. Ron Thomas Writer Killed a woman. Ron Thomas Writer I’m hoping Bill remembers he’s driving. Ron Thomas Writer My curiosity feels feverish. How’d you do it? Ron Thomas Writer Drugged up. Went over the line highway 49. Hit her head-on. Ron Thomas Writer Past Willow Creek Bill pulls off on a wide gravel shoulder near our fishing hole. We give Traveler some cash. He shakes our hands, looks down at his dusty shoes, tightens his lips. Ron Thomas Writer Three of us standing beside the highway looking away toward the trees. |
Ron Thomas Writer