Peter Richardson

Mass Pike

We stopped at a tollbooth in Massachusetts.
I handed my wife four one-dollar bills.
She recounted them before handing them up
to the burly grey-haired attendant who recounted them, deadpanning her way:

What? You don’t trust him? Throw him out!
Then his face softened, he grinned
and sent us west with a two-fingered tap
to his brow—a flourish that I felt
tempered our road map squabble in Albany.

Is there a second act for fifty-year-old
wiseacres who can spot a sulk
edging toward them in a line of cars
and help two battling spouses
take timid steps back to cordiality?

I often wonder what happened to him
after they replaced collectors
with transponders that snap a photo
of your car’s licence plate.
Did he drive a truck for Wells Fargo?

Maybe he joined a roster of comics
wisecracking their way
to gigs in Boston clubs—his slant
on what goes by in traffic
a mainstay at The Gut Laugh Grill.

Either way, I hope he landed on his feet
and not with a Gothic-scripted
Certificate of Merit from head office
but with a multi-benefit package
for the bullseye exhortations on his lips.