Poem – August Strindberg meets Mr. Lube

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
includng me
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.
“Lights on.
High beams on.
High beams off.
Lights 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.


Author: William J. Gibson

62 year old - writer/photographer Canadian, survived open heart surgery, received kidney transplant, sometimes dour, sometimes amusing, over six feet in height, severely follicle challemged

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s