Your eyes open, slow, sluggish.
The corners of your mouth crinkle into a smile,
The best dream you’ve had in months.
But you don’t feel right.
Everything’s backwards,
You’re thinking of someone to blame.
And you do.
Luck, somehow, found you,
The coffee did not burn or plunge
Fallow brown drops into crevices
Of your hybrid’s interior.
The traffic’s moving along,
You’re like everyone else just trying to get through the day
And the place you’re dreaming of,
The place you’ve dreamt of,
The place you dream of,
Seems possible.
It hurts here.
A man’s face in a third-story window,
Sputtered gray in his hair.
A history wrinkled on his face,
Each wrinkle a road of a well traveled life.
Intersections, train stations, roadside benches,
The names of places and people you’ve known,
Of glimpsing the newspaper’s ghoulish headlines.
Your eyes close, but your mind never sleeps,
Scattered thoughts, absent voices,
Blurred lyrics of the last ten songs
Oozed from speakers—
A ritual of your afternoon commute.
A spilled beer at the bar,
The golden stream hurling off the edge
Splatters onto the scratched surface they call a floor.
And you have decisions to make.
Isn’t that why you’ve come?
No comments:
Post a Comment