Donkey Cart / Smokestack Coffee

The future is, plain and simple, just eviction from the past. Making what it thinks is a keen arrival.  Tomorrow is just a panther.  With its frustration there being that it can’t eat us today.  That established, it’s not the ‘speed of times’ fault.  It’s moving as fast as a donkey cart, made of rotting timber, can carry it.  Is the past any more than a patchwork of Nash/Ramblers, topped off at the filling station.  Burgers at the Smokehouse snooker hall. A  spark from a day-job of roil at the Artificial Limb and Brace Co.?  “One foot in the grave, and one foot in the choir loft”. That’s what a lonely somebody once said before ducking around a corner, forever.  Daydreaming in the blue-eyed grass. Which turns later to trace the iron black blades in night’s generous yet wind sewn failure of stars.  Hands behind the head, a reel of mind-footage smeared across a sky. All making way for an affection for trailer-courts, and scrapyard dogs. A father taking his son to a truck stop café.  There to dine alongside some real-live long-haul truckers. Benzedrine-made men in motion. Smokestack coffee, one eighteen-wheeler announcing the approach of another.  As if Tennessee Williams, dragging a shackle, grew up under house arrest in Daggot.