Back in the saddle again - Laptopia / Poem: His Train

Nothing like a full tank of gas and working legs to take me where I'm going, in this case, delivering Compasses to the hard-to-find Growth Oppr Center. What a beautiful place! When walking up to the door a lovely woman got out of her Mini-Cooper. How dyou like it? I asked her. She loves it AND it worked well in the snow, she said. I asked her if she worked at GOC and she said she was a practicum student.

How did I know she was not a patient? Well, she walked quickly and carried a briefcase.

GOC is in a siamese-twin bldg, the other owned by JDT Petroleum Products. Right outside their plant they have this old Texaco pump and sign. I think they're just beautiful so I not only shot them but also attempted to use the pump, which is in mint condition.



Twas back in Giddings TX my then-husband Millard showed me how to pump gas.

I've talked about my new Acer computer and how I hate it, right? Lemme tell you the last terrible thing it did. I had a great idea for a poem and began writing it:

Have you ever stood in your tall clogs
And looked into the refrigerator and said
Who the hell am I?
It comes over you in a flash without even
Thinking
You laugh and say
That’s what life's all about

Well, that's as far as I got cuz - boom! - my computer suddenly put everything in bullets and made it half the size.

Oh, there are other things it decides to do, too. I'll be typing merrily along like I am now, go into the kitchen to stir my applesauce, sit back down and half the stuff I've typed is GONE or the cursor is somewhere else.

Today I had a brainstorm. Why not buy another frigging computer? A used laptop. I began my online search, reminding myself, Do not buy the first one you see, but shop very carefully. It's not easy to return these things once you buy em.

Just try goggling Used laptops and see all the things that come up. I finally spoke to a company in Toronto and spent considerable time with Frank, asking about an IBM Thinkpad. Must confess I've never heard of one before, but an online video persuaded me this was the one to go with.

I told Frank I was a writer and intended to use it for writing my poems and short stories, not to mention trying to get my novel published. All this cuz I'll be published in The Final Draft.

I ordered a 4-year-old model that's been totally refurbished. I cannot wait until it arrives next week. Here tis:

Oops! That's my granddaughter.
C'mon, girl, get serious. This is Fallingwater, where Ada and Rich took me on one of my birthdays. Spectacular!

Ah, here's my new Thinkpad made by IBM. When I told my mom she couldn't remember that "Think" had been the slogan of IBM in the old days, remember all those Thimk jokes and Thomas J Watson, the head. Then they made some sort of huge mistake and didn't get into the photocopy or the computer biz, can't quite remember, I'm no longer a member of the board, but I shore did love their IBM Selectric Typewriters and still have one upstairs in my office.

Elaine Restifo called and told me she'll publish my poem His Train in the next issue of her poetry mag The River. I miss her terribly and told her when my back is better I'll come visit her in Lambertville, NJ.

Before you read it, George is a real guy and continues to attend a poetry group in Lambertville. Ocassionally we met at Joe Traceno's house, climbing the stairs up to his lovely apartment where his wife Sylvia served us fabulous or derves. Sylvia who came to America when the Nazis were coming to power in Europe, was a cartoonist for Look magazine.

HIS TRAIN

George, when you called it, “my train,” my heart opened like a fan
and I saw all traces of your fine unspoiled face – where were the worry lines? –
and I saw you - not where we were –
at our host’s filigreed table with its spread of brie and tiny finger sandwiches –
but I put you instead aboard your train where you belong.
It’s yours, you know, and I watch you in your conductor’s uniform –
oh, maybe there are epaulets and an American flag pinned just below the collar,
a watch chain like in olden days
and certainly a captain’s hat with a rim that shines.
Steady yourself in the aisles, George. The train goes fast.
Lean against the back rails,
o learned’ man of the motion of the sway of trains,
let your knees and thighs keep you standing and let you
rectify yourself against the odd lurch.
I await you, George, and have come aboard your train this morning,
am riding it now, steadying my book and my cup of coffee,
listening, for the clash of door and pressing of the high-up button
that means we’re a go.
Your cheery mumble gets nearer
and the sound of clicking tickets
becomes an arpeggio of desire, waiting ‘til it’s my turn for
an oh-so-quick-will-he-look at me this time, like he did the last.
The brie and crackers stick in my throat, and you are there hovering
above me, George, offering me a glass of water.
O, forget them all, George, forget them all. It’s your train I want to ride,
dining face to face in what used to be the dining car.