Buttermilk Road
When I drive along the shaded curvesof Buttermilk Road past
redwood decks attached to
cheerfully painted homes,
past potted rubber trees,
sprinklers arcing slowly
delivering gentle streams
upon unblemished darkly verdant
lawns, I sip
cold buttermilk from a glass
I keep in a secure cup holder
in a utility console on the floor
of my maroon Cadillac Escalade EXT.
Oh! There's a nice pontoon boat
being hooked up to a shiny Suburban.
The kids helping with the boat
grin and wave and I wave back.
It's a long slow drive
pleasantly shaded by maples,
I drive soundlessly.
There's a lady watering fuscias,
they need water every day.
I sip buttermilk
and drive in climatic comfort.
I tune into the classic station
and hear Chopin, a nocturne,
so appropriate and there,
hey! They've got a game of croquet
going with granny.
The buttermilk is exquisitely sour
and wonderfully soothing.
Well, what do you know,
there's a guy setting up a garage sale.
He waves, I wave back..
He doesn't know me,
I just drive through
once in a while.
On the lower end of Buttermilk
things get a little less
cheerful as roofs seem to need
repair here and there and
siding could stand washing.
My glass is empty as congealed
buttermilk creeps down
to the sour dregs.
Ah! No matter! I reach
into the small Styrofoam
ice chest for the half gallon
carton and pour myself
another glass of rich
cultured buttermilk almost
to the brim.
I'm on Broadway now,
still savoring Chopin --
he's still so appropriate,
appropriate everywhere really.
I take a sip of buttermilk
and then a lusty gulp.
A tear rolls down my cheek
as I come to know,
I'll never live on Buttermilk Road.
pjk
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 690 times
Written on 2007-01-01 at 20:44
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