August Srindber Meets Mr. Lube
The speedy syrup of Lister Sinclair
and the CBC poured out of the speakers
of my 1988 Ford Escort to flood
the dark blue interior
with a documenatry
on the life of August Strindberg.
The dark intensity of his passion.
The early drunken days.
The paintings, the women.
Love and hate.
Strumming his intentionally mistuned guitar
in the early days in Paris.
August didn’t mind the snow blanket
being woven around the exterior of my car and I.
We all waited for Mr. Lube to finish off
the Honda Accord, for him to let it escape
and then to lure my Escort and Strindberg and I
into his glass-doored lair.
The nervous breakdown of the Inferno period
coincided with my passing the idiot checklist.
High beams on.
High beams off.
Turn signals on.
Step on the brakes.”
Ahead of me the glass door
failed to hide the snow
showering across the darkness of early afternoon.
The white pieces thrown by the wind
in a remote flood from right to left.
A blank reminder
that sometimes you can indeed see
which way the wind is blowing.