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Marc Swan
Drive Through
The afternoon after the morning
of chicken fried steak and eggs,
three cups of high octane sludge
for a buck ninety-nine plus tax
at the Country Buffet in Hernando,
the day after the service to bury
my mother, nine weeks after the service
to bury my father, I hit the on-ramp
at Tampa International at 65 miles
an hour, slam into the closed gate
of the parking lot instead of passing
through the open gate into the Hertz
rental lot, splatter wood all over
the windshield of a `96 Contour,
speed through underground parking
to the toll booth, say someone must
have broken the gate cuz it was open,
pay three bucks for a drive-through,
never questioned on the white streaks
over the windshield, splintered wood
in the wipers - I pay three bucks
for a thirty minute wait at the gate,
thirty minutes of looking behind me,
over my shoulder, dancing around
like a Benzedrine-soaked clown,
waiting for security that never arrives.
Marc Swan is a rehabilitation counselor in Cape Cod. He's published poems in both print and web publications such as Paris/Atlantic, Slant, black dirt, Talus & Scree, and sub-Terrain.
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