On a tiresome day—
Hot, rattling wind,
Uber wait for hospital pickup,
I start with nothing but
spam calls, office arguments,
dance of insomnia imagery.
I lift my head for the green light release,
loose crowd walking an empty field.
Learning to keep my silence,
I swallow a steamtable breakfast
of bacon and biscuits, infused tea.
Legions of SUVs and grey-body sedans
stagger parking lots, feeder lanes.
Books that are a bore scatter the house.
With a handful of old dimes
to pass around, I’ve taught myself
the hollow amazement
of metaphor through money.
Like Fitzgerald at his third morning drink,
I surrender to a soft grind:
easy employment, confusion choice
of gratitude debt, no good decisions.
Pulling on driving gloves,
I feel a transfer scorch of
afternoon sun to steering wheel.
Perfection attributes strangle
the feel for mistakes,
formulas for correction.
In tracing heroes to ghosts,
the response indicator is
a private joke between
anecdote and action, healing
the worst version of yourself.
Stored like bankruptcy cash,
conflict diamonds, I tell no one
the secrets I endure.