At the edge of the world
there is a suburban car service station,
masked attendants waving entry to dehydrated vehicles. I drove there today to touch the
nervous mechanic with my eyes—I don’t know, anymore, where to put my love for other people. He averted his
gaze; I examined myself in the rearview mirror instead. It was so humid at the
I began to crave my own spit.
Once, I fell so hard for someone
I was convinced I was driving off a cliff.
Months later we went silent on the phone. I became my own traffic island, circling the lush green
trees in the neighborhood. They are way too alive,
I wanted to scream at their creator.
When you can’t smell the dead bodies in the air, you pray to God for reasonable things:
drive-thru Chick-Fil-A, bag of waffle fries, slushie at the 7-11 off the third highway exit.
The only natural reaction is to tune the radio to the perfect station:
the music, not the news,
so if the world ends this afternoon,
you will be the last to find out.