Middle-aged bleached me
in a used yellow Gremlin
heading up Route 7
on Woden’s Day,
slow truck in font,
burdened, toting
sixteen logs that slip
toward the front, inside
their iron chains,
sixteen logs from the forest,
leaving 16 stumps behind.
At 8:20 a.m. on
May 5, nineteen eighty-two, in
Appalachia, decade
of Brooke Shields,
Century of Ann Frank,
millenium of St. Joan,
a mud-spattered Ohio
license hangs beneath
rough-cut faces
of former trees,
somewhere, pressed
between yesterday and
tomorrow on the long
journey to the mill.
Google and saw how to remove the drop plug, but it took me 20 minutes to get up off the bathroom floor after the first step. Then the directions said I was supposed to remove the plug and then go back underneath and re-connect. That’s when I ran for my website to tell you all about it and get a chance to use one of my “awful” photos,.