Imagine this: talcum
powder's delicate scent
on the surface,
covering the rank sweaty smell
of food fried in
year's old grease
burnt and salty, a
black-brown smell like
putrefying fungus on
the forest floor.
Picture this: black
woman missing two front teeth
promising she'll be
good this time, the ghosts
aren't riding with
her today, demanding
that she be allowed
to show her pass
even after the
driver waved her by, knowing which pass
she possesses and
not wanting to
hold up boarding as
she digs to the
furthest reaches of
her rolling suitcase.
Imagine this: 58
years old. Skirt so short
the veiny thighs
show right through even
as the hemline is
continually tugged down and down
again, the backs of
thighs rubbing against the stained and
filthy polyester and
polyvinyl of the
molded seat, a
cushion that does not cushion.
high heels six
inches - well maybe really just three,
strappy and cork
soled like something from 1979
the straps maybe
once sexy or seductive, now
just constricting,
impleading
the ability to walk
with comfort and ease and, really, who
wears something like
that when the rain is falling
and autumn is here?
Maybe a drag queen or a
woman of a certain
age trying to recapture
the male gaze that
feel upon her in youth?
Picture this:
stained chinos and a hat emblazoned
with 4:20 - a canned
rebellion.
Sweat shirt - hoodie
two sizes too
big and reeking of
cheap ditch weed,
sandalwood incense-
I suppose it brings
back memories of college,
memories of when
chemical
alteration of the
consciousness
was a fun weekday
activity instead of the constant tight rope
balancing act
between harmless fun and serious
addiction issues
that its become.
Imagine this: 5:15
in the morning, every morning,
a scent like rotten
eggs mixed with half digested
baked bean mixed
with the smell of water
in which hot dogs
have been boiled, left on the stove
overnight - the
gaseous outpour of some
working-class stiff
or the off-gassing of the swamp
that rests silent
and beautiful between the highway and the sea?
Picture this:
another day begun and ended
wrapped in a steel
box hurdled down the road
at 70 miles an hour,
an act of faith, of trust that
the operator is
awake at the wheel. We try to clear our minds
of thoughts of mass
suicide and icy patches
and large herbivores
on the roadway, drunk drivers
and insane gunmen
and sink into dreams or our
twisted thoughts -
processing the day to come or
the day just ended -
a family road trip minus the bickering
of the two youngest
siblings. And is it worth it? Is it worth it
each of our eyes
seem to ask - this getting up
so damned early in
the morning and being away from
our homes for so
long through the day just so
we can save a bit of
gas money at the expense of our time.
Is it worth is and
is it worth it? The questions hide
just under each word
we say and the answers
change by the day,
change on the mood and whim
of the weather and
circumstance. But yes, it must be worth
it, that time spent
watching each other watch each other,
that time spent in
fitful dream. That time spent reading or
working or just
staring into the black expanse of forest that
speed by and we are free to reside in
a thoughtless world
for forty minutes twice a day
letting someone else
worry about our safety for a change.
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