you are on the road
again. another fight, a
last fight, and you left
because you're the one that always leaves.
you don't know when you started driving but you
won't stop - the sun isn't high enough yet,
the scratchy feeling in your throat hasn't gone
away like it should have hours ago. your hands
can't stop shaking, won't stop, and
it's all you want, this sudden urgent restlessness to
quiet down and bother you another time,
when you can think. you see your reflection in the rear view
as three people - an old man
watching his wife fall out of love with him;
a dirty woman standing outside an apartment building,
trying to convince herself to walk up the stairs;
a child with chocolate smeared across its face,
its cheeks too round and its eyes too bright and
something in its smile that makes you
want to wrap your car around a tree. you wonder
where the road is taking you,
where you are supposed to be,
except no one told you how to get there,
did they?