The Breakdown Artist

On the graveled shoulder of this pitted
two-lane back highway, she's waited now for days,
rusty hood of the dusty old Buick crooked toward heaven
like a metallic red thumb, fiery as the nails
that poke through these open-toed sandals, her mask
of despair arranged to brighten hopefully
with each passing headlight.

Two days after solstice, a bit too hot to be comfortable,
it's quite the right weather and traffic pattern,
Mercury in retrograde and the calico cat in heat.
In a nearby ditch, rainwater rainbows its wavelength,
thrown shadows writhing against trees
like electric flatworms dancing with joy.

Where in the last exhibit she lay unconscious
by the roadside, spectacular in her disarray,
a wreath of twigs her crown, beads of glycerin
mixed with the real film on the upper lip,
smashed car smoking in the background,
one wheel in permanent spin,

here she drops her plastic lace handkerchief,
damsel in distress, dragonskin luggage in the trunk.
A micro tape recorder swivels
in her sequined black purse. Half the video camera lens
pans the dead engine for constant context
while the other searchlights the roadway.

But spontaneity, not sabotage, has snapped this picture -
bolts were loose, not cut or sheared, and the gas tank,
though leaky, she carefully filled. She has come
this far, as far as she possibly could.

Next along could be a farmer, tractoring to this or that field.
It could be a dirty brown delivery truck, or semi,
on shortcut to a nearby small town. Or maybe a carload
of teens, drunk and barely in control, or the dark angel of death,
or an old woman navigating carefully home. Whatever stranger
in a car, whoever first crooks open their door, and smiles,
she will get in and go with them.

And she will stay as long as is offered, or longer, accept
whatever comes. Leftover dinner and shy apology for
hospitality, sudden surprise love affair, a simple phone
call or a few days for repair, uncomfortable couch for only one
night, rape or murder or marriage. Perhaps this
time everything will be perfect. Perhaps she will
think only of how to stage the next.

Friend, turn right at your next opportunity and you may
find her, shipwrecked on her life's high shoal. If you decide
to open your door, your heart, she will examine, record,
climb in. Your hair, your very breath and murmur,
will be photographed, archived.
You might become a mechanic of gratitude
and chance, be healed or broken.
Together you might probe the limits of rescue.