On a Mountain Road in Virginia
Cycling a mountain road in Virginia,
each upward twist a burning spike
in elevation I could handle, in mid-
life, when a small black car
slows, draws close enough
to slice the tape
from my handlebars.
The passenger-side window
lowers, and I hear
kweeer,
in a thin, familiar mountain
twang. The car passes but
I won't let pass the thing
that has just been said.
I dismount; roll my bike
into the center of the mountain
road, waving to the black car
with my right hand:
"Come back!"
It's the "Come back,
you need to be taught a lesson"
gesture of the man,
the male, the man
who won't be bullied,
maybe the man who once bullied
himself.
The problem was
I had no lesson plan.
The car screeches to a halt,
spins around, speeds back
to where I stand, dead center
in the mountain road;
this time the driver's side
misses me by an inch;
the window lowers,
and the driver's face--I see it
to this day--
hates me.
The face of hate hates
me,
hates my bicycle helmet,
hates my bicycle gloves
and cycling shoes.
I am ending this poem
without a punchline,
with the memory
of the face of hate
on the mountain road
in Virginia, in the hope
I've told this story
funny, because the difference,
they say, between a comic
and a comedian
is the comedian tells things
funny.
Cycling a mountain road in Virginia,
each upward twist a burning spike
in elevation I could handle, in mid-
life, when a small black car
slows, draws close enough
to slice the tape
from my handlebars.
The passenger-side window
lowers, and I hear
kweeer,
in a thin, familiar mountain
twang. The car passes but
I won't let pass the thing
that has just been said.
I dismount; roll my bike
into the center of the mountain
road, waving to the black car
with my right hand:
"Come back!"
It's the "Come back,
you need to be taught a lesson"
gesture of the man,
the male, the man
who won't be bullied,
maybe the man who once bullied
himself.
The problem was
I had no lesson plan.
The car screeches to a halt,
spins around, speeds back
to where I stand, dead center
in the mountain road;
this time the driver's side
misses me by an inch;
the window lowers,
and the driver's face--I see it
to this day--
hates me.
The face of hate hates
me,
hates my bicycle helmet,
hates my bicycle gloves
and cycling shoes.
I am ending this poem
without a punchline,
with the memory
of the face of hate
on the mountain road
in Virginia, in the hope
I've told this story
funny, because the difference,
they say, between a comic
and a comedian
is the comedian tells things
funny.
©Daniel Dahlquist