All these ridiculous pot holes in the streets.
Today one swallows my car, front-end and all.
It is a crater roughly the size of New Jersey.
I swear and yell and point out the windshield while berating myself,
"Don't come this way anymore!
What the hell is wrong with you coming this way?
Jesuschrist.
Don't drive on this end of Salem Street ever again.
Idiot."
I know that I will, indeed, drive this way again.
Probably tomorrow.
I have a short attention span,
And I have a bad habit of forgetting important shit,
Especially first thing in the morning.
I worry about beating the school buses around corners.
Getting stuck behind a school bus can be a lesson in domestic torture tactics.
Buses stop every six feet to pick up children.
It is necessary, true,
But it is also fucking annoying.
Thankfully, my front tire is intact.
I do not seem to have ruined the repairs from my car being t-boned weeks ago.
I drive through a couple of pot holes on the way home --
They are impossible to avoid in Spring --
Even though it is a different route.
These tar-monsters are more the size of Delaware and Rhode Island.
Still, though, it ticks me off.
I calculate a different way to work for tomorrow.
It is an easy task:
There are probably ten ways to get to my job.
One way takes me down the main drag,
Two lanes of crazy driving broken by drivers holding up traffic taking lefts into
Dunkins or Starbucks or Heavenly Donuts.
I could turn at the Chinese restaurant.
Sometimes I go through the swampy back roads with the mega-pot holes.
Sometimes I drive past the back side of the pond and check out the sunrise across the water.
Once in a while I take the winding tarred path through the state forest,
Between two ponds,
My favorite pond where I kayak on sunny days.
There are no pot holes on the water.
Spring.
It makes me impatient for summer.
It's like a long and arduous pot hole between bone-chill and beach.
Fraught with bad weather and collapsing roads,
Warm days suffocated by wind-chills strong enough to peel paint off of houses;
Sudden snow squalls that remind us who controls reality;
A love-hate relationship with the season.
I love the lengthening daylight and I hate the constant changing of weather.
I'm ready for warmth and sandals.
Spring - I hate you, I love you, now hurry up.
