On Not Leaving Winfield 2004

I

I’m supposed to be home
or almost home
now

Entering the door
reaching a hand to the yipping,
wriggling pup

reaching arms to embrace
daughter and son,
lover-wife

to bathe in their welcome
made warm by my nearly week-long absence

made warmer by their pride in my
newly-won awards

even though they do not represent
the pinnacle of my desire

I’m supposed to have deserted
the place where now I am stranded,
nearly as if in a desert

A southeast kansas wind—
so shy this week
greedily clutching its breezes,
refusing to cool the brutal heat of
sun’s mid-september blaze—
now rustles the pecan leaves
my hair (such as is left)
is wisping in the wake of the frolic

as inquiring wanderers wonder
at this sight:

an old, balding, ponytailed-dude,
sitting beneath a light pole as he types on his computer

they imagine a mid-pecan grove internet hub
a web-surfing connection

“I can’t believe I’m seeing this!”

“You’re awesome, man”

Left behind by friends
partners,
camping mates who have
returned to their hearths
and home rhythms

sadly abandoned by those
who did what they could
but didn’t know what else to do

a good deed done
but not every detail covered

missing ignition keys
have stranded my prairie schooner

the blowing wind that would
billow my sails
is not able to move my vessel
from its moorings.

comfort and solace
offered by the neighboring friends
provisions re-stocked by departing travellers

the telephoned resources
unable to deliver on their
vaunted promises
in such a “remote” location
on a sabbath day

my back-at-home-local mechanics move from
their comfortable day-off houses
to give the needed numbers

but cannot produce an activator code
for the ignition

until

anytime tomorrow

“we’re available 24 hours a day”

“call us at 4 in the morning and we’ll work
to have a locksmith at your location by 5 am”

“call one hour before you want them to be there”

“I’m sorry for your plight.”

My lover-wife
(her tendencies already anticipated)
after comforting talk and listening to
venting

says, “I’m sorry that your friends have left you there.”

I step back and remind
that those are her issues
(blame, responsibility, confession, repentance)

yet it looks to me as if
I am punished for doing
the best I could do for a friend

still I am defensive when
she wants me to face the abandonment I feel

having no mother, nor father
nor sisters upon which to rely

having few friends upon whom to depend

and I feel left behind...

not convinced that all did everything in their power
to locate the missing piece

and that some
believe the problem to be mine
and mine alone
while sympathizing for my plight

the apologies came from whom?
my wife,
the neigbors

but not the friend
whom I sought to help.


the dance feels old
and tired
more accurately, tiring

I fear the blame,
but willingly share it when
it looks as if my friends will be
called to account.




II

eschewing the already packed camp cot
for my sleeping bag on the hard ground
of the tent floor I settle down to sleep
so I can rise early and get the promised help

my telephone rings and a sad, apologetic
voice announces that the lost has been found
in the one unchecked bag, now five and a half hours north

apologies offered and accepted,
the keys will be shipped home tomorrow



III

throughout the night I awaken,
checking the timepiece in my
cellular telephone

finally deciding to give the call for help
that is promised within an hour

in de-tenting and re-packing, the return call is missed
but this message is relayed:

“We can’t get you the help you need
no one from Oklahoma is willing to take the call;
no one from Kansas will answer their telephone.
Try again later.”


I pull my new dulcimer from its case
again set up a camp chair
to sit and begin to play
an old Hank Williams song:
“I’m so lonesome I could cry.”

The sun rises, the birds sing
around me the scattered and scarce campers
begin to stir
and bid their farewell to the grove

as I wait for the allotted time to pass
before re-beseeching
the ring from my telephone jingles the morning air

Help comes!
not from those whose job it is to help
but who could not do so
but in the form of my hometown car dealer
who presecribes the steps
for a new dance:
A Pedal Dance which,
when coordinated with the
uncomputerized key cut in Ark City
will ignite my internal combustion machine.


IV

The key (with the dance) does start the car,
but I’ve been warned that it only has
a limited nurmber of starts.

Keeping the car running,
I finally need a gas stop.

After refueling,
the key won’t successfully
ignite the igntion.
“Houston, we have a problem”

I re-trace the Pedal Dance steps
on the brake
to get me going again,
making a mental notch in my
“the key has 4 or 5 lives” belt.


Onward I drive,
pulling once into a rest stop
to stretch my cramping legs
but not leaving the car
because the engine continues to run


Finally I must stop
and stop the engine
in order to unstop my bladder.

I stretch its capacity as I stretch the miles
reaching Goodland before using another
precious “start.”

The sirrocco of the south
is blowing so strongly
that my car is wont to tip,
its heat seres my lips
as it sucks any moisture in its wake

I return from the urinal
and
the key refuses to start.

I Pedal Dance to no avail,
trying to calm my wildly anxious heart

Breathing deeply,
I slowly re-trace the pattern
and
am rewarded by the resurrected life in my engine.
Onward I go
finally entering my state,
the brilliant sun overhead
in the stunning azure
renewing my flagging spirit.

Normally I can pull aside when
weary for a few zzz’s on my cot
but over this trip hangs
Damocles’ sword, ready to sever
my engine from its starter
at the next stop.

Spinning wheels eat the miles
as the engine gulps my gasoline
and the orange needle begins
to reach horizontal in the gauge

I seek to gauge the amount remaining
calculating against the distance outstanding
as the mountains hove into view
and the wind shifts to blow fresh clouds
over their summits.

Now on E-470, not needing to stop for tolls
I breeze by in the eXpress toll lanes,
thankful that no more ounces of the precious petrol
are used than are necessary.

To no avail
—the engine begins to strain, coughing on fumes
when liquid is needed
just as I reach the tollroad’s end.


V

Why is it that the most helpful people
often have the fewest teeth?

Despite calls to the earlier-besought road-side assistance
I am sitting on my tripod folding seat
on the shoulder-side of my car
once again strumming my
newly-won dulcimer.

My phone rings several times
as the thickening clouds
blow wildly but resolutely from behind the
mountains, chasing the setting sun’s rays...

Several times it is a dispatch woman
trying to find my location,
(this after trying to explain it to someone in India)

It appears that they’ve sent the truck out
and it couldn’t find me!

The home-town car dealer also calls to see if he
should stay at work in order to cut and re-program
a new key.

I dismiss him with thanks
and settle back to more windy dulcimer
as the afternoon fades.

Once more the dispatcher seeks to plot
my coordinates before handing the telephone
to a driver.

Only moments later a cheerful man with 2 remaining teeth
pulls his tow truck behind my car.

I help while he struggles with how to operate the emergency gas
container
we finish paperwork
he counsels me to purchase gas
at the nearest exit
which I hie myself to do.


VI

Then,

finally,

home.

Entering the door
reaching a hand to the yipping,
wriggling pup

reaching arms to embrace
daughter and son,
lover-wife

to bathe in their welcome
made warm by my nearly week-long absence

made warmer by their pride in my
newly-won awards

even though they do not represent
the pinnacle of my desire

now-keenly refocused:

home.

©2004 Steve Eulberg