Ode To Flicking Off

I sometimes quote poems i'm trying to memorize while driving. Usually, i bob my head or tap my fingers so as to give the illusion i'm singing along with the radio. No need to make public my private habits. On this unfortunate ride, however, i was either too tired or too indifferent to pretend, and made the mistake of looking over to the car across me at a stop light. Stanza five of John Keats' Ode to a Nightengale made its way from my lips as i stared unconsciously at the two gentlemen seated in a white pickup truck.

Now, either they have a serious distaste for Romantic poetry, or they took my mumbled words and vacant expression to mean i harbored some undeserved contempt toward them. I take it, and i trust this is an educated guess, they assumed the latter. Before i could look back, a horn honked, and the sweet music of Keats vanished into the background. Foremost in my thoughts, not to mention my visual field, was raised a stout middle finger.

You can imagine my shock. One moment i am in a forest of "white hawthorn...fast fading violets covered up in leaves," and the next confronted with the trunk and stem of a finger belonging to an angry African-American man. It didn't register at first. I gazed blankly at the figure, trying to remember my geometry. Then it hit me. "Yep," i thought "he's flicking me off."

"But why?" my thoughts continued "What is this? What did i do?" I was too confused to react in kind (another habit of mine i should probably keep in the private sphere), and too tired to labor for an answer. I simply continued to stare and quote John Keats. Not one ounce of emotion escaped me; not one twitch of my cheek muscles. This went on for nearly 10 seconds before the light turned green, and i turned my head to watch the road.

Off we went, the two angry black men and i. The passenger shuffled in his seat to be sure i still noticed his gesturing, and i kept on with my poem. One mile and many obscenities later, their need for McDonalds outweighed their need for retribution, and they dropped into the turning lane. By now i was finishing up the last few lines "Fled is that music-Do i wake or sleep."

Only now do i realize the irony. I got flipped a bird for quoting a poem about a bird, half asleep, and failing to pretend i was listening to fleeting music.

the K. H.