Monday, July 11, 2011

at the end of the day

I am not your friend.
I am not your lover.
I am not a theme-park medium behind a crystal shard.
I am not even
the parking lot attendant taking your last bit of change.

I am the space at the edge of the road
where the sidewalk ends
and the grass begins;
where you throw yourself down
after changing a flat tire -
and all the frustration of
and loose nuts and bolts,
and spilled coffee
late papers -
run draining out of you
like poison
onto this gravelly inch of land
which absorbs your pain
like a parched sponge.

fingers blackened with grease and gas -
the closest you'll ever get
to the glittering lights of Dubai -
streak across your once crisp
white shirt
(no more)
striped now with red
as the slice in your finger
wells up.

drips down
mingles with your pain
in the sponge of the land
that you drive by on a daily basis
and never
not once
give a second glance at.

glance now -
as your temple throbs
eyes pulse
see dark flecks of asphalt
(who's fault?)
glass shards;
telltale signs of
another tragedy
far worse than your
misaligned tire.

exhaust fumes.
cars surge.
everyone fighting to get
to the end of the day;
leave that wicked mess
for another one
(another someone)
trying to get to
(another someone)
a better place
where something beside
dirt and ash
cradles you

arms like silk
are a dream not realized.
closest thing you're going to find
is the stained
microfiber of your couch:
buried and musty beneath
last week's laundry
and last night's dinner in a box.

who needs that?
take a moment;
throw the tire iron
over the edge
and just breathe.

This is one that just popped up out of almost nowhere. I thought I was trying to write something for an online poetry competition, but not so much this time. But the imagery and the flow that emerged here, just really make me happy.

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