Dispatch — K.Hunt

“Dispatch” is the name of the tune
He hummed to himself (as they rolled along)
On a bus they told him would take him all the way to Paris

It had a melody that spoke
(Spoke, if you can imagine)
Of a well-worn motor
Of the need to let go
Which he needed to do at the time
As the wheels riveted unendingly underneath

“Dispense” is the word the lady beside him used for it
For when sorry is not enough
For when the lilies of the marsh have withered
Dispatch, she said, is triangulated between my ass, Utopia, and Santa’s workshop
That’s where I’m coming from

This is not what she said earlier
Earlier she said she came from nowhere, a far cry from Fuctup, NWT
Near Pistophen Levee

She suggested he try’n talk the driver into stopping the bus

“I don’t know,” a professor cried (his car broken, his driver in traction)
In trying to decide
Which brought back the hum of ground thundering wheels
Sounding as if they should have torn loose by now

Clickety-clack, Jack
The wheels on the bus

Near the weathered gate
Beneath the apple tree where drips the honey of July
He will always wait
Even when he is not there

He sang it to hold on
Clickety-clack, Jack
The exhaust stinging his nose
It was a pleasure when she asked
“What spatulas the spatula?”

“Dispense” had not the same ring to it
In the emptiness of a dark mid-wintered prairie land