Requiring No Gratitude

joe bueter 
I could ask you to think yourself a field,
site of model rocket launches, or oxalis
proving grounds of your ex-wife, or nearness
of your current wife in what I’ll leave for you
to enrich in riven space. But your cinder blocks
open no damask smell of hail and spent fuses
inside your imagination. Instead,
I’ll offer a composition of escape.
Imagine everyone knows your innocence
as the assumed premise of our escape enthymeme.
So you are given a car as you exit white pines
and their neon-bright postings.
A virile, diesel distance runner of a car.
On the state road north, observe
what passes for human logic and opt to smile.
You might witness a driver’s jaw open
with a volume way below your great engine’s
as a mattress lifts from his car’s roof,
like the machine sheds its soft, outer skin to the sun.
Once the driver understands,
he raises his arm away anyway.
A magician’s gesture of an illusion complete.
You might see that people will
welcome you by asking that
awe be your response to their mistakes,
that laughter and analogy be your language.
If I haven’t seen you by then,
hack your reel into the river, or hatchet into wood,
someone will come and bring you kindness you earned
A gift that isn’t and requires no gratitude, prayer, or grace.
Author Bio 
Joe Bueter lives and writes in central Pennsylvania. His poetry has appeared in The Southern Humanities ReviewVassar ReviewConfrontationNashville ReviewCumberland River Review, as well as other journals. 


Bueter Headshot