“Steering Wheel Poet”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

The ‘real job.’

Writing professionally can yield a wealth of memorable experiences. But to depend on this craft for useful income is often a fool’s gambit. Most simply accept that the habit does not pay well enough to support self or family. The result is a dual path, with divergent loyalties and goals. A sort of split personality that provides sustenance and tension in equal measures.

After returning home to Ohio in 1983, with my television study through Cornell University tucked away like an old newspaper, I joined this bi-polar group. My daily employment consisted of working at retail stores in the area, where I would soon rise to management responsibilities. But at night, my wordsmithing journey continued.

Frequently, my thoughts turned toward creative ideas as I was driving home from work. I became used to rapping out lyrics or poems while at the steering wheel. This behavior peaked at my last stop on the journey, a supermarket in Geneva, Ohio. I would sometimes detour onto back roads when heading home at night, and write with my virtual pen in the glow of gauges on the dashboard:

Under cover of darkness

I will cheat the light

These crazy questions are justified

We have already died

Under cover of darkness

I will greet the night

These crazy visions are magnified

We have already cried

I did my best

On a road less traveled

Spun rubber, spit the fumes

All too soon

I took the test

In a room cold and empty

At my desk, sitting straight up

Nothing in my cup

I felt the cold

With the breath of life going, gone

Out of my chest

No happiness

But this day

Comes around, quick

Sunrise sealed with appeal

Spin the reel

Under cover of darkness…

The way home was a straight shot, south on Route 534. But as I neared the county line, my course could begin to vary. I might turn off on Trumbull Road, then across Trask to the junction in Footville. Or, go past Rock Creek Road to connect with Dawsey, then curl back toward the way home. Each extra mile allowed for my personal muse to whisper ideas. Sometimes, my drive of 13 miles might extend to twice that length, or more. Around the Hartsgrove square and back again. Or across Route 6, to Hambden. With my truck headlights leading the way to inspiration.

I found the way

On a road in the moonlight

Right turn, left turn

Not concerned

Not going home

Not going anywhere

Before my ears get kissed

Writer’s bliss

No one is waiting

If I am late it is no matter

Midnight is alright

There’ll be no fight

I kick the tires

After stalling my motor

Metal pinging, hot

On the spot

I take my 12-pack

In a grocery sack

Carry the lot in side

And the moon is high

Under cover of darkness…

Once, I came home through Rock Creek during a lull in winter storms. The landscape washed in crystal-white and roads cleared but frosty. Peering into the darkness ahead, I could hear the reverberation of unwritten verbiage waiting to be birthed. I sat my phone in the center console and let it record each finger-tap on the wheel. “On Donner, On Blitzen… on the two step, on the double check, on the beat over icy streets, till I am home and under the bedsheets.”

Opening my front door often felt like a mic-drop. The performance was over.

I did my best

Never failing

To give a good report, a quick retort

This is my favorite sport

I play to win

Though no trophy is awarded

Just a laugh, no ready cash

A pebble’s splash

Lost in the dark

With a half-ton hauler

Country boy, city ploy

This is a decoy

You can believe

In flannel and jeans

Don’t be deceived, by what you see

It isn’t me

Under cover of darkness…

My Black Lab and aging Pomeranian would be ready to romp in the yard. Often, I let them wander while opening a first can of Canadian beer. But creative clouds would linger in my head. Later, as fatigue beckoned with hints of oblivion, I would sit in my living room, scribbling out lines of text. Sometimes, this meant falling asleep in my chair, still dressed in job attire.

Upon waking up, in the wee hours, silence would drown such moments of inspiration with a need to find my bed. But I knew that with the new day yawning into life, there would be another cycle of gainful employment at my shopper’s depot. And then, a ride home under starlight skies, straight south from Ashtabula County and into the welcome embrace of prose pronouncements, and oblivion.

A poet of the shadows, in an F-150 with four-wheel drive.

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