Ode to Small-Town Sweethearts

poem

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O, when you're seventeen years old
and driving through a blizzard
     with your vision reduced
into two feeble headlights,
it's an epic relief to suddenly
     discover yourself traveling
behind the Wizard of Snowplows.
Now you'll survive if you ride
     in his slipstream.
He pushes back the fear and ice.
This is not a time for quiet prayer,
     so you scream

with joy (Snowplow! Snowplow!)
as he leads you into the next
     snowed-in town.
You didn't wreck! You aren't dead!
And you know a family who
     lives here—the Browns.
They run that little diner
     on Main Street.
But it must be shut at this dark hour,
     at a quarter past midnight.
The oldest son, Mark, plays power
forward for his high school team,
     the Wolverines, 
and once broke

your nose with a stray elbow
while playing tough-ass defense.
You only know him on
     the basketball court
     but that's more than enough
to call him friend.
So you park your car and trudge
     through the snow—
cursing and blessing
this ferocious winter—
     to find Mark and his father
in their cafe, awake and cooking 
     chicken-fried steaks
for a dozen other foolish
survivors and road trip refugees.
"Dang," Mark says to you.
"Why are you risking

your life on these
     dangerous roads?"
And you tell him
that you're traveling through
     the storm
to reach a girl named Lynn.
She called for you
and you obeyed her call.
     And Mark smiles and nods.
He knows that mortals
     have always fought
     the Gods
as they searched for love
     and lust.
And, O, with your belly
     filled with steak,
you stand at the cafe window
and pray for the snow
     to ease
so you can climb back
into your car and continue
your teenage odyssey.