- I confess that, as I was driving with the boys to visit my mum, we ran into traffic. Complete standstill. “What’s ‘traffic?'” Vincent asked. (Good question, m’dear!) I pointed to all the cars, explained that we all wanted to go the same way and were slowing each other down. “No,” sage Vincent replied. “When you drive really slow, that’s called ‘being in a parade.'”
- Driving home again with the boys strapped in their seats in back after several days at my mum’s, we ran into another logjam. No commentary from Vincent, exhausted sleeping boy. But as I sat there, stuck in traffic that was stalled for no apparent reason — construction, accident, overflow from an on-ramp — it occurred to me that anything could be up ahead — sinkhole, stampeding elephants, zombies — and I’d run right into it, just another cow mooing along, blithely following the herd straight into disaster.
- I confess that I really don’t want to die a stupid Darwin Award sort of death. Really.
But I can’t end a confession post on that note. I think that’s against the rules. Or it should be.
Reminder: Any poet-blog folks who are interested in participating in a Tupelo Press Poets on Parade (Parade!) sort of blog author tour (reviews/interviews/what-have-you), drop me a line at mgauthier [at] tupelopress [dot] org. I confess we’ve never done this before, and I’m excited about it.