To A Lover, Saved by Accident

If love is a car or a road or a trip (and I’m not
sure it is, maybe it’s more like a spiny animal,
a tall building that leans impossibly into the wind)
then let’s look through the window
and consider.

All those trees are moments, blurred and reaching.
A turtle waits to cross. Somewhere a fire begins
in the underbrush, not even yet a whiff of smoke.
I won’t blow through the stop sign this time.
Get out. Get out. Get out.

Trust me, this is good. Look, there’s a gas station and a
pay phone that used to work. I bet they sell cookies
and condoms at the hotel down the street. The light changes
every ten years or so. Who knows
what might come along?

I’m doing you a favor. Think of it. You’ll never have to
see me at forty one, trying to find my glasses in the dark.
Never have to watch the decline of the roman empire
of my body. Never roll away from me
in the darkness, and wonder

how in the hell you got yourself stuck here,
like a man seatbelted too securely
inside a slowly sinking car.


It’s August, MotherFuckers! 

Image taken with iPhone of the Prius, showing off her windshield scar.
Words written while waiting for the windshield to get replaced.
Ears On whatever awesome bluesy music is cranking overhead.
Time Taken five minutes.
Brain On the new novel.

This entry was published on August 2, 2012 at 8:48 am and is filed under August, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

6 thoughts on “[174]

  1. Wow. This is stunning. LIke, I’m in love with it and just about everything you write these days. I want to link to this on my blog. XXOO.

  2. If you wrote that to me, I would not think you were doing me a favor. Missing you at 41: a tragedy.

  3. Cosmic irony at its best.

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