Driving On a Sunday

Her face appears

On the stained backseat window.

The azure sky and

Milky-grey clouds mirroring

From pools of black irises –

Two in number.

She reaches into her pocket

And retrieves her temporary

Reprieve –

White earphones –

Blasts it into a bellowing

Volume of screams and jeers.

Only to block out

The mundane voices,

Whispering stories of green things

And the tinkle of pure, beautiful,

Silver.

A ringing sound that

Clouds her dreams and

Takes away everything –

Paintbrushes and charcoal –

That she holds dear.

She traces hearts

On the fog

Made by her own breath

And straight to the sky.

Asking the angels –

Even maybe the devils –

Praying –

To take her by the hand,

Fly out of this vehicular

Prison wall.

The sun blocks her view,

Telling her

That the angels won’t land.

It was a Sunday.

mimi; 04/09/06