Jim Cihlar presents us with a highly imagistic look at a moment in time, gently evoking loss.
—
….
The Last Bottled Soda Vending Machine East of the Missouri
Wake up, it’s summer,
the ritual of swimming
dependent on my mother’s easy
largesse, the road to Lake Manawa
more memorable than arrival,
dirt plume behind us on a gravel road
beside the city, somebody’s grandfather
in work fatigues at the full-service.
The chilled green glass,
sugar and liquid inside.
Simba, a stylized mane of brush strokes
bleached like prairie grasses,
a logo losing meaning,
my mother, her presence soon to be diminished,
invoking a lesson. Please understand,
these are august logistics:
dust, metal, age, glass, wet.
***
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