Unassumed Road That day we lost the hound down the way, watched it bound tongue-slack, freedom-struck beyond the yellow wood and lichen-crusted boulders of pink shield rock and undergrowth. That day we took chances, pressed on. That day made no difference, even as you plunged into a field of bemused heifers, cursing all dogs, as it rolled in steaming dung. That day we bushwhacked calling its name, calling it names, until it returned with a meaty bone that looked like a rib. A last laugh that day, when glibly you said, the person who nailed the sign This Road is Unassumed, has trust issues. Vegetarians Use the Back Door The cedar smoke and truck exhaust of a ribfest at hot noon and white Canadian men lick fingers and use lite beer as mouthwash, cupping the rolls of themselves-- or the wife--giving the flesh a bit of a jiggle, having a good laugh. Pre-diabetic with gorgeous tits this one guy talks so loud not even Stevie Nicks from the Jimmy six down drowns him out. Prolly won't run coon.
Might run bear? Then he shoots you a look. Yes you, broccoli boy. Come party with us then. Just how were you holding your face? Traffic Calming Ahead I see the laser eye, like a bindi between descending digits each an eyelid batting numbers until I back off to rickshaw speed, enter a village that will not long accept an oriental trope. Nothing here is foreign. Everything belongs. Yes, but the couple who own the general store are Goan, originally, and there's a roadside rib shack, real Louisiana bark to tempt bass fishing southerners, or hungry Yankees up after deer. I see a harvest moon, like a Harley's headlight.
It crests a pitching Otonabee hill, makes a cow a ghost in a field a smudge that comes, goes behind clouds, between firs, shafts of light climb the ridgeline until it turns away. Then nothing. I enter the village late. Later than anyone else? Signs for butter tarts and bait glide by until the exiting traffic from the arena parking lot halts progress. A wedding dress and tux teeter in the back of a Ford F250. The truck nuts swing. Locals cheer. Fresh Cut Fries A hairpin turn dragged the escarpment's serrated edge, scoring sky.
A chip truck. You and I argued road sign grammar. (I bemoaned the lost art of the adverb, you advanced the hyphen, either way.) Shield rock nursed pockets of April snow in its nooks of dark. We were so remote. We ate at a picnic table, by a lake that we could agree was not lead grey. Your salty mouth now unlocked, eager to lick me clean. So, jump cut to me in a middle-distance, dappled remove.
My point of view is a weak shaky-cam, as even the ending was wrested away.