Same Road I Drive by Day
by Liza J. Marcato
Same road I drive by day
at night, I turn my head from
to see the view by dark,
the lake a hole
between the buildings.
My car runs metal within metal
and rides along against all likelihood
and I'm safe in motion,
though I have poisoned myself again,
and wait for the coffee to burn itself through me
obliterating dull, ordinary pain
and weakness with pretend speed,
my shiny limegreen racecar of thoughts
makes me feel clever,
and loved.
You don't know me any more
than I know you--though we profess
love, and enjoy dwelling in whatever
fingers of light fall on us
through the open window of our friendship.
It's a lucky illusion we agree on,
one that allows our soft tingling
sleepy bodies to hurtle forward
through these cold streets
on a night when nothing much
is happening, save for winter
wearing itself one notch thinner,
making way for the brown grass
to wake up in another day of chilly mud.
The night shoots a hole in the day;
you can't fill it, it wakes you up
to your aloneness, wholly,
a burning 'o' streaking
naked in the night
like a comet that only comes around
every 200 years or so.