~ The Poet's Place Cafe~

PROSE

C. W. McCall's voice tore through the speakers of the eight-track player, "It was the dark of the moon, on the sixth of June, in a Kenworth pulling logs …"

Dad was driving the motorhome as I sang along, with two of my young nephews and one niece in the back, sitting on the orange and brown shag carpet. Seatbelts were sissy attire, so we each stretched out where we were most comfortable. For me, this time, it was riding shotgun on the white vinyl seat.

As the song came to a close the motorhome began to shimmy and shake in an odd manner. My voice ripped the silence open, "Dad, what's wrong?"

His response was to roll up his sleeves, exposing the arms of a hard working man. He went to work in the engine compartment as I tried to entertain the three young children. I was only eight or nine years old, so it was a difficult task. Dad and I had to keep it together, because their parents had sped far ahead in a red pickup truck, leaving me to be the adultest adult while Dad worked on the camper.

Returning to the cab, Dad turned the key, but a rugged churn brought nothing more. A State Trooper pulled up behind us and offered his assistance … Dad climbed into the front seat of the cruiser as the three children and I piled into the back. He took us to a diner, just off Route 22 in New Smithville, Pennsylvania.

As we walked in to the diner, there was a hungry child, a thirsty child, a dirty diaper, and a child that only wanted a quarter to play the arcade game, which was stuck abruptly into the corner of the dining area.

Dad approached the counter to give our order, as the kids and I were left in the booth, within eye sight of him. The quarter kid followed her Grandpop to the counter, still begging for arcade money.

Grandpop reached into his pocket to extract a roll of sweat soaked quarters, and the roll exploded. The quarter kid reached down as she spoke, "I only wanted one," and she picked up a single quarter, depositing into the machine as the other children were left scrambling to find the pieces from the quarter pinata.

*******
POEM
"It is the dark of the moon,
on the sixth of June,
in a Kenworth pulling logs …"
Tore through the eight-track speakers.

I sang as Dad drove our Dodge Broughm motorhome,
Sitting on the orange and brown shag carpet
Two young nephews and a niece,
As a nine year old, I rode shotgun.

The song silenced, the motor shook,
Dad pulled over to take a look,
Exposing his overworked arms,
He gave a turn of the key, nothing.

A State Trooper offered us a ride
To get Dad and all four kids off
Route 22 in New Smithville, PA,
A diner was our unfortunate host.

A hungry child,
A thirsty child,a
A dirty diaper,
A kid with a request.

"Grandpop,
Can I have a quarter?
Can I?
Can I?"

A sweaty roll of quarters
Emerged from the depths of his pocket
An explosion as the roll gave way to sweat
A pinata of quarters upon the floor.

"Grandpop!
I only wanted one!"
******
COMMENTS

I have never been one for poetry, so please imagine my surprise when I decided that the poem turned out better than the prose. This old lady is dancing with glee ... I just wrote a poem and it makes sense!