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Flip

Flip Mason-Dixon Lines There are miracles in this world but they are working-class, Wednesday morning miracles that go mostly unnoticed by the priests. We towed the air compressor for the drill behind a better-days pick-up and were on the way to shoot some rock where they were digging the basement for a lake house. The secondary road was mined with potholes, the truck's suspension sti as a bed frame. We probably forgot the safety bolt so on a big bounce the compressor tongue jumped from the hitch and speared the asphalt. The safety chains snapped, jerking the bumper, we later discovered, a half foot from the truck bed. The compressor, that piano-sized chug monster, somersaulted in the air and landed back on its wheels rocking to the roadside as though we had parked it there. And there was nothing to do but shake our heads and hitch it back up and go drill the shot holes for a house some swell would read cooking magazines in. Editor's Note: Periodically, we insist that our poetry editor allow us to publish his work. He was kind enough to favor us with "Flip," which appears for the first time in print here. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Southern Cultures University of North Carolina Press

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Center for the Study of the American South.
ISSN
1534-1488
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Mason-Dixon Lines There are miracles in this world but they are working-class, Wednesday morning miracles that go mostly unnoticed by the priests. We towed the air compressor for the drill behind a better-days pick-up and were on the way to shoot some rock where they were digging the basement for a lake house. The secondary road was mined with potholes, the truck's suspension sti as a bed frame. We probably forgot the safety bolt so on a big bounce the compressor tongue jumped from the hitch and speared the asphalt. The safety chains snapped, jerking the bumper, we later discovered, a half foot from the truck bed. The compressor, that piano-sized chug monster, somersaulted in the air and landed back on its wheels rocking to the roadside as though we had parked it there. And there was nothing to do but shake our heads and hitch it back up and go drill the shot holes for a house some swell would read cooking magazines in. Editor's Note: Periodically, we insist that our poetry editor allow us to publish his work. He was kind enough to favor us with "Flip," which appears for the first time in print here.

Journal

Southern CulturesUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: May 19, 2013

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