Last Night's Dream

Shirl's SAAB is a good car, a solid one, too.

Its turbocharged two-liter powers it well.

I drove it last night, down a corkscrew to Hell.

The road bent right, a smooth gravel surface,

As we started downward, I drove with abandon.

Fast but controlled, I steered gently, enjoying.

Feeling the slippage of pebbles and sand on,

The curve that continued, spiraling down,

The surface turned muddy, rocks rose from the ground,

But all were avoided as deftly I found,
Our way through that minefield, so sticky and brown.

Limited traction, as a dirt-biker knows,

Increases the thrill that the rough-rider feels.

Or a skier must sense when cold the snow blows,

As schussing a mountain trail, 'round turns she reels.

But my road's bend grew tighter, the rocks bigger still,

With sharp edges threatening, and deep mud as well.

I'm thinking, “There is no way back on this road.

So there must be a tunnel ahead, round the bend.

I foresee an end here I might well forebode,

A 'corkscrew bridge' maybe, will let me descend.

Like that which we found in Dakota last year,

As we rode through the wilderness, far, far from here."

“A bridge to release this road from its spiral, 

and allow us to find a straight stretch, for a while. 

A road that will lead me to villages new,

Where I'll stop for warm ciorba, and meet people, too.

Share tea, chat awhile, and leave with new friends,

Surely that bridge is around this next bend!”

Then under a mud bank the SAAB became stuck.

I got out and pondered my plight in the muck.

Two men stood quite near me, and one of them said,

“Your car is a goner. Good thing you're not dead.”
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By Duncan C. McDougall, 5 January 2014

(A poem-in-process; but my actual dream.)