The soft engine hum of
a line of snow spattered
a line of snow spattered
cars. Inside, people puffed up
in winter coats, lumpy heads
in loose hats, holding
the steering wheel with black
mittened hands.
Some passengers watching,
heads bending to type
or talk. You
see me, I know you do,
face surrounded by dirty
gray glass. I am leaning
forward, waiting.
How many more times
do I have to fail, to succeed?
Waiting has a strange lethargy.
Waiting has a strange lethargy.
Waiting for someone to let me in.
Waiting for things to get better.
Waiting for things to get worse
so they can get better.
Waiting to feel better.
Waiting to feel worse.
First the
man standing
roadside, holding
his phone, then the white car
with a dented imprint, smashed
windows and sideways
tires squatting in a circle of glass
his phone, then the white car
with a dented imprint, smashed
windows and sideways
tires squatting in a circle of glass
on the shiny gray highway.
Trying to edge in now,
blocked by the stocking
capped head in the blue
car not looking,
staring ahead
as if I don't exist and
if I do, I don't matter.
I don't matter. This line
is bound to conventions,
propelled by a false
urgency. We are not
supposed to be
a face to each other. We are
propelled by a false
urgency. We are not
supposed to be
a face to each other. We are
guilt passed.
No comments:
Post a Comment