A sudden sliding over feathery snow:
The world goes whirling, noiseless, through the windshield.
This could be it. There's nothing I can do
To stop this now.
Bracing, I clench my eyes
Against the swirling glass and cutting snow,
The concrete median, the twisted steel -
Or bedsheets, twisted in a burning turmoil,
Midnight coffee, lonely cigarettes,
And solitary walks at 6 AM
On grayest city sidewalks in grayest dawn.
'This finally could be it,' I think: 'So be it,'
And, 'Christ, please take me home.'
In a rush,
The crazy world snaps back to normal speed:
My fillings rattle; snowy-frigid night
Invades my fractured car. I breathe. I breathe.
I run my hands along my limbs and face.
My hair is full of snow and broken glass,
But I'm unhurt, and don't know what to do.
Copyright by Ike Wassom, 2016. All rights reserved.