Driving to Arabia by Timothy Pettet

A cotter pin is missing,
and three wheels wobble
on my red Radio Flyer.

My fingers wrap
the semi-circular grip
on a handle that rises
from an axle that binds
on all but the widest of turns.

and those trees
with five-pointed, star-shaped leaves
line the street. Trees
I have never seen
border the road. The dots
and dashes of a firefly hatch
expose a code for particle and wave
along a stretch depleted of trees.

They quote an ancient one.
East, they say – Arabia,
Mesopotamia,  and a map of Cathay.

At a Rest Stop

The mile
is a trick imposed
by the Romans. Distance
is an illusion composed
of mathematics, imagination,
and word.

At a Truck Stop

Half-way to Denver, an exit
opens a parenthesis (piss
rhymes with bliss, and I desire
a second opinion
on the span of ring finger to thumb,
sacred spot to ecstatic hub,
and the purple that curls
after white
blooms behind the eye.

I hear country music. I need
a new rhyme.) The curve
of an entrance ramp
brings my parenthesis to a close.

In My Red Radio Flyer

Fueled by the hum of melodies,
many words forgotten,

I deliver fragrant oils
harvested from an island
in a perfumed sea.

I hear lyrics
voiced by a mouth
insinuated by a cloud.

I witness faces in the bark
on both sides
of a slender, Arabian tree.

2 Responses to “Driving to Arabia by Timothy Pettet”

  1. That’s the way to Arabia, Timothy. Turn left at Zana Du and keep that flyer greased. Timothy? I havn’t heard that name since the acid head!

  2. this is an amazing piece; there are so many wonder-filled lines. my favorites are:

    Distance/is an illusion composed/of mathematics, imagination/and word.


    I hear lyrics/voiced by a mouth/insinuated by a cloud.

    thanks for writing this and having it posted here. best, winnie

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