“And if I should die in a car wreck,

May I have Van Morrison on my tape deck….”

- Poi Dog Pondering

I’m the kind of guy who always needs a soundtrack.

Sometimes it drives my wife crazy.

She quotes a nun from her Catholic school days:

People who always have music or TV on,

the nun had said, are afraid to be alone.

And yes, I have several racks of albums, tapes, CD’s,

alphabetized, and like Daniel Stern in Diner,

I have an obsessive-compulsive fit

if someone files Jethro Tull under “T” instead of “J”.

So, to me, music and driving

are like baseball and beer.

When I slip in a tape

and hear the ka-chunk of a satisfied player,

and the speakers come alive,

the car starts running a little more smoothly –

melody is the lubricant;

pistons the percussion.

It doesn’t matter which favorite is playing:

Van Morrison’s muscular, sinuous tenor

bending notes like hot iron;

or Dylan, his nasal twang and mumble

spinning those timeless stories;

or the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, R.E.M. –

whatever fits the soundtrack for my day.

The engine, my tires, the singers and I

are all humming down the interstate,

a mobile rock show,

and I’m singing along as the bass pumps through me,

and Sister, I’m not alone.

It doesn’t matter that my Plymouth Breeze sedan

only seats five comfortably;

they’re all here with me,

doing 65 on 95,

and we’re stoking this damn old car

with rock n’ roll.

05/30/2004

Author's Note: [Inspired in part by "Roy Orbison's Last Three Notes", a Pushcart Prize-winning poem by B.J. Ward. First published in Sunken Lines, Summer 2006.]]

Posted on 05/30/2004
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