Roadspray

“There are currently no regulations regarding the clearing of snow from sidewalks in the City of Green Falls.”

Since the Save-a-Lot grocery has closed, detergent dearth is crisis.

Is dishsoap worth two miles? Calmer heads think not, like mine.

Between winter storms, while clouds deny the cold, I set out across half-tended urban tundra, to the downtown store.

Where, I find, that for the price of a loaf, I could buy Montana.

I dare not check the cleaning products aisle.

On principle I march over crusty snow, from overpriced downtown, to the Circle K.

Remember when they used to sell just gas?

My kingdom for Palmolive! A horse would balk at these sidewalks.

Some shoveled dry, some stretches left for glacier.

O’er frozen mashed potatoes, and my ankles aren’t what they used to be.

There is a discount bottle, I hope, toward the back of a small shelf.

With a tiny, red clearance sticker. Be still, my heart!

Forgotten, dust-patina’d, it awaits. But, never mind, detergent bottles are self-cleaning.

No one buys such things at a convenience store. That would be pathetic. What luck it would be to find one!

The beat changes as I slip into a foot-rut some sad one has left. The busy road hisses next to me, throwing salty spray of the variety unsung. Then, a start! A car-turd, that backward-forming bumper stalactite has given up its grip and slid. To the curb.

(Science states that that’s how life itself began. Half-frozen, salty mush dropped off a Buick two million years ago. A steel shaving within was consumed with a spark, then- Protozoa! And, the circle of life.)

Sinking with every step, such thoughts come to me. Then they lead to the one I lost.

Such lovely travel times we had, Mariah. You were tawny and efficient.

You were fast.

And, like every Ford, you were made to last.

But, your transaxle mount was your Achilles heel. The torque of dysfunction radiated down to the exhaust manifold, and your lovely flex-pipe.

And, Mariah, as you aged- just like a rose-blossom- rust blossomed in your brake system, too.

No more time for schlock! Travel alert! A sidewalk untouched since November’s blizzard lies before me. Ironic. It’s beside an insurance office, and very forbidding. Keep a sharp eye, and onto the road along with traffic! Cue that crazy jazz-chase-music!

Running, high-step through the glop.

Like a rookie caribou.

The cars don’t have to weave or stop.

They just have to let me through.

Now a chunky briny pool.

Like egregious oatmeal.

I can’t even find the curb.

Compromise and sprint by feel!

(One more thing, science proves that wrinkles are caused by checkers calling me ‘dear’ or ‘hon’. I’ve tested this empirically.)

And, there it is, an 8 ounce bottle, alone toward the back of the shelf, issued just for desperate me. Overpriced, but I bought it desperately. All to clean a crusty plate and cheese grater. With a picture of a duckling on the label. By nature, ducklings are self-cleaning. Prescient?