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Poetry
by Adam Beardsworth
Big Stop, Aulac, NB
After the bars the dark would pull like a
dog on a leash, drag us to the bleak out-
skirts of town, down the steep on-ramp to the
pitch-black highway where we’d try to hitch
rides with 3am truck traffic; possessed,
I’d harangue the gods, black out stars with my
pistol finger, threaten to climb the radio
towers that webbed the Tantramar or walk
the white divided line as high beams bore down
like a hungry barn owl until you’d tug me to the
shoulder.
Once we got lucky, rode shotgun on
the bench seat of a green delivery truck, got
dumped at the Aulac Big Stop where you up-
chucked a hot turkey platter while I slid my
fingers along the steel blade of a hatchet pinched
from the hardware aisle. . .
I can’t remember how we made it home, just waking
up, hatchet planted firmly in my headboard.
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[Distillate © HA&L + Adam Beardsworth | {from the Greek bios} -- the course of a life.]
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