Glassblower, Snowdriver

8 Jan

On Christmas Eve, the glassblower awakens molten dripping

On the end of a six-foot stick

And makes it grow like dough in the oven.

He says, “The Gorillaz give me the best beat,

But the glass won’t always shape my way.”

His trouble is to blow enough, and no more.

A fence’s distance away, he wills the glass into itself,

Which is akin to driving in snow and ice.

A tactile challenge: To feel the road,

Hands on a wheel and feet on pedals,

Through machine to four tires and layers of precipitation

To pavement.

In the crush of holiday travel on I-90,

The front tires are my hands, the back my feet

On this road that must be finessed

I can touch its salt and slick,

Divine a slide before its start.

Like the glassblower feels a vessel gel into base, curves and lip,

Without a finger risking burn.

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