no question about what makes sense

Former Farm friend, Craig, made it safely last night, after a quick tour of OHCity Library, we stumbled upon the Warehouse District in Cleveland for beer and dinner. It felt nice to catch up over a beer and show someone the little I know of this new, adopted city. Leaving late we drove through a dark, mostly vacant city, singing too loudly to the Fine Young Cannibals, and in no time were dashing through a downpour and laughing like maniacs.

I was sad to see Craig go after our short visit, but wished him well on the rest of his journey to Santa Barabara, CA. I'm glad I'm heading out of town shortly too, I can't imagine the solitude of my apartment after a couple hours conversation with Craig which brought back so much happiness and so many good memories of the Farm. Thinking about road trips (no matter how small) always makes me think of this poem, which I first discovered in Garrison Keillors collection, Good Poems for Hard Times. B1 gifted this collection to me after my father died and I turn to it often; a fountain of lovely poems springs forth from this book!

Starting the Subaru at Five Below

After 6 Maine winters and 100,000 miles,
when I take it to be inspected

I search for gas stations where they
just say beep the horn and don't ask me to

put it on the lift, exposing its soft
rusted underbelly. Inside is the record

of commuting: apple cores, a bag from
McDonald's, crushed Dunkin' Donuts cups,

A flashlight that doesn't work and one
That does, gas receipts blurred beyond

recognition. Finger tips numb, nose
hair frozen, I pump the accelerator

and turn the key. The battery cranks,
the engine gives 2 or 3 low groans and

starts. My God it starts. And unlike
my family in the house, the job I'm

headed towards, the poems in my briefcase,
the dreams I had last night, there is

no question about what makes sense.
White exhaust billowing from the tail pipe,

Heater blowing, this car is going to
move me, it's going to take me places.

--Stuart Kestenbaum

Happy weekend!