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

traffic

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.