The Ballad of John BehvinThe Ballad of John Behvin, by Thomas D. LadsonThe Ballad of John Behvin
Mathew Poncho parks his 1987 Chevrolet Monte Carlo. There is rust in the tire wells. He leaves the key in the ignition. He leaves the car running. It will be stolen before he gets back. He is fine with this. He stole it three days ago and wants it to go away again. The streets were brick once and now they are asphalt. Matt can see the layers in the potholes. He hates plotholes. They ruin a good story. There are 13 long strides from his car to the building.&
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If the ink upon the page, Was the truest we could find, Of showing all the world for free, The temperament behind the mind, That guides the hand, That held the Pen. If words were made by nature’s laws, To only show the truth of men, And women. And if what we saw, Upon the parchment, crisp and clean, Always was unerring true, Letters might seem quite obscene, If left about in public view. If what we wrote was what we are, And versa-visa in a groove, Oh literary Avatar! I pray my writing would improve.
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