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Eating a Footlong in the Car on the Way to Ballet

Her older sister’s theatrics following last night’s breakup
segue into a sociology final
which later morphs into an episode of Friends on Facebook
with Scott as placeholder until the next real boyfriend.
Corleone the cat cleans out his Buddha Dome
then spends the rest of the afternoon
eyeballing the antics of the neighborhood beneath his window.
The super in the apartment building
sporting bib overalls and snake
attacks the bathroom’s drain
worries that his name will be listed among the missing
that his bones will be discovered
five years down the road
in a culvert along Route 169 outside Hibbing, Minnesota.
There are afternoons when the backed-up traffic
on Route 20 West is kaleidoscopic
catapulting drivers into Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone
with close-ups of Rod and cigarette at Ithaca
lecturing the wide-eyed on scriptwriting’s secrets
submitted for their approval.
I am Richie Havens’s High Flyin’ Bird
brushing my teeth before heading the few blocks
to a classroom filled with middle schoolers
whose trips to the pencil sharpener on the window sill
to spot the cars waiting for the only light
is their best shot at escape.
Another substitute and I jack up the rear of a housewife’s van
to free it from the stub of a stop sign
it has somehow become impaled on.
Jittery and apologetic she climbs in tugging at her housedress.
Later I pen a note into a permanent record about a kid
whose oblique view of the world 20 years hence
would likely be labeled ADHD
and win him a bag of pharmaceuticals.
I find his scribbles fascinating.
I’m telling my younger daughter
who’s devouring a footlong in the car on the way to ballet
about Woodstock
and how Richie would bar chords
with what appeared to be a lemur’s thumb
reminding me of Uma in Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
her long lean legs only partially hidden by a short denim skirt.
Adjusting her iPod, she asks whether it’s true
that everyone there was stoned.