Christopher Dungey

New Ramps

The new ramps appear
on country roads you haven’t driven
lately. They aren’t just ones you missed
before—the pine framing, plywood walk
and rails still a raw white
or pressure-treated olive. You’d see
hammer prints if you stopped
to admire the work.

…………………*

Or, to visit but that’s the awkward
part. You don’t know whose tragedy
this was; whose diabetes
numbed then killed their feet;
whose car skidded across glare ice,
right into an intersection.
This might even mean someone
has grown elderly. Someone you knew
but you weren’t paying attention.
–

I have to say that I don’t read too much poetry. I read poets who are accessible and who make me want to write: Bukowski, Gary Snyder, Richard Hugo, Richard Jones, Jim Harrison, and Bob Hicok are favorites. They don’t make me think too hard, yet they manage to move me. I write poetry because we all want to produce something that others will enjoy and perhaps thank us for; then later, perhaps, hold us in esteem. Sometimes I am able to produce a short vignette that gives a lasting moment of recognition (even to me). These may be warm, touching, thought provoking, or poignant for reasons only the reader can identify.

–

Six Nearly Perfect Lag-Bolts

………………..-“Reduce. Re-use. Recycle.”
………………….Logo silk screened in green on a
………………….crème canvas shopping bag.

Out of a shipping frame I found
propped near a dumpster,
I rescued six nearly perfect lag-bolts
before sawing the two-by-fours up for kindling
to burn with some unseasoned maple.
I turned them slowly with a slipping crescent
wrench and they came out of the pine
with threads still sharp,
the hex-heads hardly corroded.

…………………*

Conservationists have a motto
for storing such salvage in your garage,
say, in a plastic gallon sized imitation barrel
that once held Now and Later candies.
You’ve seen this on bumper stickers
they sell at the Recycle Center. Whatever
my lag-bolts fasten together next
must be humble in function,
heavy with that sense of purpose.
—-
—-

Chris Dungey is a young 60s retired auto worker with over 100 poem credits and 16 stories published. He returns to writing stories and poems after a three year hiatus of local feature journalism. He is also recovering from knee replacement, 401K crash, and near pension screwing by GM. An ankle fusion is looming in October after he limps to a few more sports car races and the Stratford, Ontario Shakespeare Festival. He’ll miss a few months of sub teaching but is still glad he quit drinking to take up running. The poems and stories keep coming and he’s grateful to appear here.

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