Involuntary Carwash

A week of rain, the last drops of a storm
whose hurricane-force winds left shattered towns
along the coast. We sigh: "At least it's warm,"
repairing backyard tents, while I-5 drowns.
The Sunset Highway's up to its old tricks—
a miles-long stretch is buried in the mud—
we shake our heads: "Remember 'ninety-six?"
while poor Vernonia staggers in the flood.
With semis throwing bow-waves six feet high
along the freeway, I drove to Eugene
and back: two hundred miles of drinking spray
and feeling like a sailor. "Keep me dry,"
was all I thought of when I went to pray
"And thank you, God, for getting my car clean."