|
Grit
by
Leland Jamieson
A
Dream Sequence
In
Dreaming Eye the
railroad bed dissolved
from tracks beneath
a deck-less flat-car
frame
to carriage wheels
which had for
miles revolved
until
they rolled to
rest, quite glad
to claim
a whistle stop
to take a little
cooling pause
and get cups filled
— as oilers
each took aim.
The
oilers there were
old-time ghosts
whose paws
in gloves pumped
oil not used since
Timken’s
time,
and each of them
had cried his
last ‘ah-hahs’
on
finding oil cups
shrieking for
a prime . . .
.
The carriages,
once two, dissolved
to one,
and that to none
— no parts,
no scraps, no
grime.
~~~~~~~~~~
His
motel room had
freshly been redone
in gold-striped
stippled green.
The paper’s
paste,
not dry, choked
up his throat.
I’ll cut
and run,
he
thought. He set
about to pack,
in haste,
but all that he’d
unpacked and put
away
were not, now,
his: black socks,
black shoes that
laced . . . .
He
was an interloper!
Couldn’t
stay.
How’d this
occurred? Quickly,
he must, just
must
move on —
and must let go
of his dismay.
~~~~~~~~~~
He’d
leased a shiny
sporty jeep. He
cussed
the dealer out
because the key
would not
ease in the lock
no matter how
he thrust
or
giggled, teased
or coaxed —
it steadily fought
his thumb. The
dealer pointed
out a lock
shop, saying,
“That will
be your last,
best shot.”
~~~~~~~~~~
He
headed for the
shop, a three-block
walk,
but striding near,
it faded from
his route,
and at his feet
the street turned
into rock
and
stones and sand
— mixed
till he’d
little doubt
a glacier left
in its retreat.
It pitched
him steeply down
a gully-washer’s
spout.
He
bottomed in a
valley deeply
ditched
to drain off flash-flood
waters well before
they threatened
shops and homes
. . . . But, now,
he itched
to
climb back up
and find that
vanished store,
that “best
shot” key
shop which eluded
him.
He turned. The
glacial rubble
was much more
a
cliff than he’d
remembered. It
looked grim.
Was this how he’d
descended that
high hill?
He clawed his
way up towards
its towering brim.
But
every stony foot-hold
he could drill,
each hand-hold
grip, would just
give way and slide
and slip him further
down the dusty
till.
Weary,
he rested . .
. . He was mystified
with feeling for
the till . . .
. Why had he fought
these grains of
sand, these boulders
at his side?
It
spoke! “It’s
in repose of arms
once taut
with fear that
you embrace your
gift of grit
despite appearances
you thought you
sought.”
[NOTE:
Timken’s
time: In 1915
the Timkin Company
brought out the
tapered roller-bearing,
which slowly eliminated
the oil cup, and
oilers’
jobs, on railroads
in the U.S. by
the late mid-century.]
©
2008 by Leland
Jamieson
|
