Snowplow Driver

“This will make a good story one day”

Is sometimes the only thought that keeps me

From wishing a particular day never happened.

On the one hand, the thought—when my car

Slides off the road on a patch of ice,

Clips a tree, and buries itself in a snowbank—

That I can’t afford the repairs. On the other,

The conviction I can turn it into a story

If I’m not afraid of looking ridiculous.

It could make a point as simple as the need

To slow down on a snowy night

When nearing a curve. Or I might dwell

On the anger that often follows a close call

When we think of the gods as amused to observe

Humans behaving as if the errands they’re on

Are too momentous for a moment’s delay.

There I am in my story, so indignant at happenstance

That I can’t sit in my car and wait for the plow.

I have to step out and pace in the snow,

Cursing and shivering. The story might end there,

Or might end with my calming myself with the thought

It wouldn’t be fair to blame the snowplow driver

For my predicament. Or else I might wonder

About the story he’ll tell later that evening

If his wife is still up when he gets home.

I can see her now, listening at the kitchen table

In her snowflake pajamas and smiling,

Despite her sleepiness, as he claims,

While he pulls his boots off, that he can tell,

Before the stranded say anything, which ones

Will exclaim how glad they are to see him

And which will ask him, “Where

Have you been all night? What took so long?”