New Year’s Day, poem by CL Bledsoe

One of the junkies in the backseat spoke

up to ask, “Should there be so much smoke

behind us?” A wall of gray poured from the car.

I took the first exit, wondering how far

I could make it before the explosion, no flames

yet. I found a Wal Mart, parked and tried to wake

my ex who just wanted to stay in her seat. I gave

up, went in, and asked them for help before the blaze

took out somebody else’s car. They wouldn’t even call

the fire department. Meanwhile, my passengers had all

been kicked out of the store for trying to make a pallet

in an aisle, pulling pillows and blankets out. Now that

I’d stopped driving, flames poured from my hood. I stood

and watched it burn. My ex took my hand, asked if I would

go inside and buy her some cigarettes, since she was banned.

It’s kind of funny, she said. I came back to find a man

spraying out the fire. I went out to him and he warned me

to be careful if I drove the car, since the battery

had melted from the flames. Do you think it would turn

over? I asked. Well, no, just be careful. That acid burns

pretty bad, he said. It can melt through most things.

I waited out the night on the hard lobby seats,

while the junkies slept, wondering when it was going

to get funny.

CL Bledsoe is the author of a dozen books, most recently the poetry collection Riceland and the novel Man of Clay. He lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.