Poetry

Time spent isolated in cars, for me, is to make decisions, ambitions,
chastise myself for lack thereof the latter.

It’s a ritual, one that will not be ending soon.
and like anything (maybe the only thing) done everyday for ten years, became meditative.

I cry when driving late at night, listening to my own many revelations.

My best self is in vehicle, thinking my best thoughts, laying my best plans.
Whether the mouse or the plow, the match was set with throttle involved.

It’s hard to admit that everything else feels like a distraction from that.

The sun is very bright today, I know because
on this drive I kept looking up and thinking,
“the sun is very bright today”.

The night was for sad silent contemplation, this morning for silly thoughts,
but if I keep looking up, my eyes won’t stay dry anyway.

Thirteen degrees is not good storming out weather.

Sure, you proved a point, you didn’t want to be there.

She knew that.

You were writing about her not needing any help, and how

beautiful you thought building that lamp was, and as you were writing a

clever ending about not just watching beautiful moments,

she asks for help.

Not responding, trying to capture a moment, you get

scolded for not listening.

Mostly just embarrassed that what you were too busy

manufacturing to notice she needed help

You left, cursing.

But it’s very cold outside, and you don’t think.

You turned the ignition over, and the car started with

ice on the windshield, of course.

You shoot the wiper fluid out to get the ice off,

And after 25 years of living here you’d just put

a scraper in your car, or remember that method doesn’t work.

You get about seventy feet from her apartment before the whole

thing ices over. Obscuring your view, and ultimately your getaway.

It could be apparent now, but it won’t be.

Soon enough you’re parallel parking the car, hitting the curb

an uncharacteristic 13 times, but still parking the car.

Sitting in your chair at home, writing about how cross you were.

How cold it was.

She’s asking you to call her, but you are too busy

trying to record another moment.

Eventually you’ll catch on.

Gun Toting Bandit