Redemption

  "Come to church, Johnny," his mother pleaded.
It was a summer Sunday, bright and light.   
"God's no use to me—like my family—
thanks, but no thanks for the pretty invite."

Enough, already, with the damned preaching. . .
“It's a thoroughly right day for a ride;
car needs washing, old tunes need  listening.”
Get a job, John, came the voice of his bride.

Johnny, do this thing; Johnny, don't do that!
He grabbed a rag—scrub a dub, scrub a dub;
hosed it down good and wiped with a fever;
mopped teardrops of water off the chrome hub.

The body, hand-toweled though 'twere a baby,
four on the floor, sixty-four Chevrolet;  
the leather fresh and fine, rolled and pleated;  
mess with John's ride and there'll be hell to pay.

He slid under the wheel and fired it up,
turned on the radio, cranked it up loud;
saw his own face in the rear view mirror;
scary, a change for the better he vowed.

 For now he would live life on his own terms. . .
The top came down on the convertible,
breezy reprieve for a  troubled hot head;
that the voices would come, inevitable.

He lit a new joint, home-grown and hand-rolled,
Acrid, sweet smelling, like smoldering hay.
“What is that reek?” he heard his mother say.
 “Hot damn, mom, can't you just please go away?”

The big engine roared like a jungle cat,
climbed easily onto the country scene.
Fresh cut crops perfumed the air, harvest time
in full swing, barley and wheat gold and green.

The voices came of a boy and a girl. . .
Daddy, when are you coming home to us?
Tears of desperation showed in his eyes. . .
You surely don't want me; what's all the fuss?

Deep into hilly farmland Johnny drove;
animals sipped of singing streams and ate
their fill from greenly carpeted pastures.
But the scene did not relieve his self-hate.

His wife screamed: get the hell out of my house;
the children cried: Daddy don't leave, don't leave;
a solemn mother said: son go to church;
you don't know for sure in what to believe.

Johnny pressed down hard, pedal to metal;
a guttural thrill roused him, toe to ear.
He swore to silence his loud accusers;
from the cooler nearby he grabbed a beer.

 How fast do we think this puppy can fly?
"Zip it up and leave me the fuck alone."  
You know, Johnny, the voice insisted,
nobody would care if the coup you've flown.

The Beatles blared, "I wanna hold your hand. . ."
Voices shouted Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. . .  
He clutched his head, a migraine looming large.
She said get a job, John, we need the money.

Powerless to change, he did not know how;
Drive the mother over the cliff! said the voice.  
John shut his eyes tight, forcing out a tear. . .
"That," he said, "might be the very best choice."

Then there was a thud.  "What the hell was that?"
He stomped the brakes and the car spun around—
till it stopped short—facing the way he’d come.
He had hit something; it lay on the ground.

He pulled off the road and turned back to see
where he'd been headed while surely insane.
Around the corner there crawled a harvest
machine, invading far more than one lane.
 
He got out to see what damage he'd done;
there it was, a tangle of curls and blood.
"No, God, please, not this innocent lamb.
He is blameless. It is I who am not good."                   

He knelt down by the small broken body,
and with affection stroked its lifeless head.
Johnny had been headed for destruction;
were it not for the lamb he'd sure be dead.

He swore on his knees his old ways to change;
just like the car, he would turn life around,
ask his wife and kids and more to forgive.
Voices now quiet, he was homeward bound.