COME-BY-CHANCE

I rent a car in Corner Brook
and drive the Trans-Canada
across Newfoundland, at least,
on a bare black highway
under a blue March sky.

I am surprised how well
I know the lands writing,
little has changed,
I have forgotten little,
even if I think I have.

As I drive this afternoon
with the sun falling lower
and lower, the sun chants
and I chant with the sun
in ancient blood rhythms.

I eat fish cakes in an ESSO
overlooking Random Sound,
later stop at the Tanker Inn
near Come-By-Chance
where I drink a Black Horse.

A man and a woman in snow-
mobile suits with helmets
tucked under their arms
slide into the tavern
and watch two men squat

over lottery machines
like they're playing pro ball
or deciphering the enigma.
The whole world is at rest
like anything could happen

like nothing's going to happen:
perhaps the world has simply
stopped on a Wednesday winter
night in the middle of this vast
vacant island where an eternal

flame burns in the night sky
over a moth-balled oil refinery,
a steady sign that Joey Smallwood
had more dreams than a narcoleptic
on valium and less sense than

the fool who drowns in a pool,
trying to rescue the fallen
moon, while we all watch,
because its on, a documentary
on Barbara Ann Scott, still

skating with a smile, and Mel
tells me the roads are slippery
with complaints about politicians
who won't provide enough
salt trucks for the highway.

I nod.

© 2002. Educational Insights - Poet's Corner