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  • The Night Driver
  • Michael Spence (bio)

Route No. 7, 1 a.m.

A quiet autumn night. In the back a pair Of drunks, the only riders, are passed out Like casualties from some undeclared war.

Nearly hearing the slosh in their stomachs (vats That want no stirring), I smell their bouquet: Lilacs in sour milk. We ease to the light

At Forty-third and University. As if reglazing my windshield, the rain Melts the beads of its broken rosaries.

The wipers hiss; I wait for the red to green. A Toronado roars up on my left—tires, A sound of fabric tearing. The car runs

The light, swerving right around my bumper To rock to a stop at the corner curb. A man Leaps out and rushes over to pound my door.

Is Sheila on here? he yells. Lemme on! He wears a tilted red felt hat, a crucifix Mixed up with coils of silver chains

Looping his throat. I shake my head. He kicks The door, his glare fiercer than the curses Familiar to this route. The back of my neck

Prickles when the man attempts to force The door open. Giving a scream, he's gone. When did the light turn green? Its brightness pierces [End Page 186]

The cataracts of ice my eyes had grown— My foot floors the pedal. Too soon, I slow For the last stop and park. I pry my hands

From the slick steering wheel. I've got to go Back to that intersection. He won't Be there, I whisper; the drunks snore away.

Boots rooted to the sidewalk, he rants At a woman dressed too lightly for this weather, His car double-parked in my lane. But some saint

Of mischief made him leave the driver's door Open. At this hour no one else is out. A smile splits my face. Blasting the horn,

I stomp the gas. The man gargles a shout That's lost in the slam and shriek of steel: a gust Of glass like solid rain sequins his hat.

I'm calling the cops when he charges up, the mist Outside blurring his face to a glow. The slice Of my grin is a wound I want him to taste.

He threw that door wide just as the bus Was going by, I tell the nodding cops; Nothing I could do. The man's so mad I could trace

The vein in his temple. He grabs his chains and snaps The cross from his neck. When the cops make him sit In their prowler, he sags. Some bits of glass slip

From his brim to the carpet, glinting at his feet. The surge of rapture that swelled me when I hit His door now leaves, and the rain stops just like that.

The wall of clouds that choked the sky retreats. Inside the bus I forget how much blackness Is pressing down on all of us at night.

Michael Spence

Michael Spence, whose poetry appears regularly in a considerable range of periodicals, has been publishing his verse in the SR since 1991.

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