We are lost in the rain,
in a rental car.
The steering wheel is on the wrong side,
as is the traffic.
The sky is the grey of a $5.00 sweatshirt.
Thin and wholly unremarkable.
The road is wet and slick.
We are lost because there are no road signs.
Except for the ones that say 'bump'.
They do not kid around, here.
Bump means a sudden, jarring change of altitude.
And the little rental has a dubious concept of suspension.
We have taken to rating the bumps
On a scale of one to five, five being tremendous.
After a five, you check to see if you still have your teeth
And your kidneys.
Maybe it's down here, we say.
Though clearly it is not.
But the alternative is to revisit the roundabout
For at least the fourth time.
It's some sort of factory, on a small bay.
It's either closed or a day off, no lights relieve the gloom.
The rain drums on the roof of the tiny rental.
We turn in the yard, barely able to see.
WHAM! The car drops half a foot.
WHAM! The front wheels climb back to the pavement.
The tires scrabble for purchase while the rental tilts like the Titanic.
I wrench the wheel by instinct.
Wham! Wham!
The back tires mount the wall of the car-sized crater,
and we're fish-tailing back up the lane.
We look at each other for a moment.
SIX!