CHARLES GARABEDIAN
Trips to Brimfield

The workday started at dusk,
loading my grandmother's van
with the goods she had hustled off retired wives.
She would hand me a box of toy
collectibles to slide along the back wall,
abreast the oak-carved setees, bevelled mirrors,
and Chippendale sets.  The Queen Anne chairs
and Victorian replicas were crafted to mint.  A cold,
grey Rhode Island morning, five A.M.
Street dead in silence, and the sun
not yet to rise.  It was long already
when the five minutes seemed an hour's worth,
weaving around potholes on the backroads
I spent many years traveling along. 
The Dunkin Donut's coffee nearly stained
her weathered hand, up and down each bump.
A.M. stations came in muffled,
mixed with the constant banging
of metal parts loosely strapped to the wooden frames.
  The sound played in my ears
like the screech of an adolescent's voice.
My stomach turned each time
she would hit the brakes, pump the gas,
hit the brakes, and the sound of horns would ricochet
between the walls in the back of my ears.
Every trip felt the same.  Tired.  Banal.
A cold, grey Rhode Island morning, five A.M.
Sun lost in clouds. Asleep in my Grandmother's van.
The passing moments of life.