Parking FAQ

Q. Why do I have to pay for parking?

A. To maintain the lots, fill cracks

and potholes, we need money for that,

and money to repaint all

those parallel lines, all those arrows,

mow the islands, plant annuals,

perennials, and keep

electricity in the evening humming

down rows and rows of lamp posts.

Otherwise, vehicles

weaving over a rutted field,

the chaos of night class.

Q. Where can I park?

A. Lots A, C, G, S, 11-20,

and the area across University Drive,

behind the tracking houses, strip mall,

grassland, beyond

the mountains,

designated by this sign:

Q. My friend is leaving campus. Can I

use his permit?

A. Only if you wear his clothes

and attend his classes.

Only if you foam your mouth

with his toothbrush

and dream his dreams.

Q. This not so much a

question but a

complaint about the

proliferation and

height of the

speed bumps and

how going over

them they

rattle my teeth.

A. Wear a mouthguard.

Q. Can I wait in the aisles

for a parking stall to open?

A. When in your life are you not

waiting for something?

You wait for the lecture

to end, movie to begin, email to arrive,

microwave to beep, neighbor’s dog

to quit howling, sex to ripple

across your ravenous flesh. You waiting

for a parking stall is a pint of waiting

in the ocean of waiting

whereupon your heart circles

like an orphaned whale.

In short, ride a bicycle to campus.

Q. I can’t walk from the parking lot

because my leg is in a cast.

What should I do?

A. First, have the Provost sign your cast.

Second, have the Vice-Provost

verify the signature.

Third, from the Dean of Engineering

check out a dolly cart. Fourth,

have the Secretary of Health & Human Services

roll you from class to class.

Q. What should I do if my car

won’t start?

A. Sounds like you’re in a horror film.

Listen for zombies. Sounds like monks

chanting. Check your side mirror,

rearview mirror, pray the engine catches

before you try the ignition again,

blind spot. They should be

stumbling closer, closer, each one

slightly pigeon-toed.

Q. Your sarcasm isn’t helpful, your answers

aren’t answers, your answers suggest

a wound underneath, I’m taking

psychology this semester, love it,

love the unpeeling that goes on,

sometimes a wound is underneath, why

won’t you help me?

A. Because I need help myself.

There are days I’m looking for

something—a book, say—walk

into a room and forget

I was looking for a book, days

I wear a jacket of dread and take

a pill or two. Underneath

there’s a wound, on and off since I was six

I’ve sensed menace in the air,

atoms holding knives,

sometimes no pills

but a tumbler of bourbon, the slow

dissolve of one cube.

Q. Tell you what, let me make you

some hot cocoa, Nana’s recipe,

in a squat white mug

bring you hot cocoa.

The smell alone, oh man

the smell alone will swaddle your bones.

Can I bring you a mug?

The rich scent and uptwisting

wisps of steam?

A. I’m moved by your offer,

the warm gust of your compassion

despite my unhelpfulness.

This is not so much an answer

but rather me wishing each time

you tap your horn

a parking stall opens magically,

me wishing your car battery

never dies, you have one of those

vampire batteries, lucky you,

lucky life

mile after mile.