2 September 2009 | Vol. 9, No. 3

Nocturne: Inexcusable Apologia

by KEITH MONTESANO

Too late to think about tomorrow, I do it anyway,

           and while I'll still be sleeping, your drive across I-95

                      I always picture, every situation different. First

a man in a car with a siren—flickering and silent—

           wearing away its dark black paint. He stops, tells you

                      to get out. Since there's a passenger in your rearview,

you do. Mimicking the original Vanishing, he wraps a cloth

           around your mouth, but I can't describe your struggle.

                      Car abandoned. People passing see nothing. Their excuse:

they were also on their way to work. Then the only day

           of snow: your blown tire, a piercing nail, your skidding

                      into the right lane, breath finally slowing…

A man wearing trustworthy clothes—a business suit,

           a wedding ring—offers to drive you to the nearest mechanic.

                      There cannot be a cell phone anywhere.

This time, in Breakdown, Kurt Russell will not save his wife.

           Then the part in Fargo: you the passenger, someone else

                      driving, where Grimsrud, eyeing you helpless

and broken-legged, shoots you off camera, only

           quick flash and gone-before-you-know-it powder burns.

                      You asked me once, like it was some kind of game,

to change something about you. I would answer this:

           you trust too much. Everyone around you, and even I,

                      can make choices for you. And believe me, I often think

someone else will always make them. Gun to your head.

           Chemical cocktail wrapped too tight. The way

                      you writhe. The call I get too many hours later.