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          The Mounting Quiet
          By Dean Van Doleweerd

          Behind the belt
          sitting still
          atop baking blacktop
          are three lanes
          of impatience.

          The radio crackles
          of canine involvement --
          the suspicion of children
          not found;
          beyond the thrown bodies
          tangled in the roadside

          Another summer
          shimmering above the hood
          of my hunching
          four cylinders.

          Under the same sun
          blonde hair
          with Georgian Bay
          at the feats
          of fourteen year old freckles --
          all safely in-bounds --
          until the tangle of red
          fails to rise
          to the expectant gaze
          of freedom.
          Their holiday
          has brought them
          a haunting;
          a Castle Rock
          upon which
          they helped to haul
          their hero.

          Still idling
          in August
          cars converging
          without rules,
          a hand raised
          or a finger
          in frustration

          Another September roll
          altered --
          an empty gut clench --
          a Richard Cory moment
          thrown before
          a subway train
          rushing everyone else.
          The garden grows to new expectations
          in this month
          of heat.

          My eyes open
          with the energy
          of adolescence,
          iris exposed.
          The sting
          of exhaust
          slaps me
          and I turn off
          at the ramp.
          On a gravel road
          I stop
          in a cloud
          and stray
          into a field
          of late summer colour
          against the grasses
          grown tall
          along the fence.
          Hidden there,
          the sun slides
          beyond the day
          and I breathe
          the mounting quiet.

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Document last modified on: 11/06/2004

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