Puddle-Seeking Plymouth

By John I. Blair

Where Grandma Braun had dwelled
Only the well adorned the spot
And the big barn, leaning just a bit
As the beams within began to rot.

We were two feckless teenage boys
Out on an early April lark
Deep in the Kansas countryside
Meaning to fly a kite before dark.

With Roger at the steering wheel
And mine the navigation part
We were in reckless trouble
Nearly from the start.

The car rolled down the rutted lane
As far as we would dare,
Looking for empty pasture
And unencumbered air.

And then a sucking mudhole
Swallowed us to the doors,
Mired us to the ankles,
Scared us to our cores.

A long hike on a county road,
A sympathetic farmer
A big green John Deere tractor
Left us feeling calmer;

But when we drove back to the city,
Our faces flushed and red,
Instead of abashed embarrassment
It was exhilaration instead!

Before that year was cold and done,
A year among our worst,
We’d stuck that car in two more bogs—
The best time was the first.

©2004 John I. Blair

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