Monsoon Season

We drove to L.A. from San Diego.
It was late & we three had just given a
poetry reading at a bookstore
in La Jolla.

Miguel was driving.
I rode shotgun.
Dudley was sprawled out
in the back seat.
I think he felt sick.

We had all drank massive
amounts of Pabst Blue
Ribbon which the proprietor
of the bookstore had kindly
provided.

It began to rain.

The ’68 Impala was a beast
held together with duct tape
& coat-hangers.   The
windshield wipers didn’t work.
That is, the switch didn’t work.
If you got out & monkeyed with the
wires under the hood
they’d spring into action.

We drove along & the rain got
heavier.   Miguel couldn’t see.

“Fuck, maybe it’ll stop,” he said.

“This is Southern California,” I told him,
“it ain’t gonna stop.”

Miguel pulled over.

It was uncommonly dark on the
405.   Cars hydroplaned past.   The rain
was pouring down.

I climbed out & popped the hood.
I couldn’t see anything.
I reached my hand in to where I
thought the wires might be.
Shit.
I was drenched with rain.
It was a monsoon.

Miguel jumped out to
share in the misery
& eventually we got the wipers
cranking.

Back in the car Dud was
moaning something about
car crash & a watery death.

“I don’t think he feels so good,”
I said to Miguel,
“he’s mixing metaphors.”

“Ah, he’s fine,” Miguel said,
gunning the Impala out
into the wet
freeway night.