a trail slicks back,
leading to those
unvisited, dark places.

road construction
crews, emblazoned
with orange vests,
mend a burst

water main,
making the street
as untractable
as glass.

the traffic jams,
in the rearview,
I see a woman as

she affixes
her lipstick.
I understand
the compulsion
to make repairs.

monoxide exhaust
fumes through
the heater

into my car.

waking, I am
in my bedroom
in the afternoon
after working
the nightshift
at the truckstop.
twenty years old.

a reminder
lingers on my

within the dust
of the sunlight,
such perfect
and ugly symmetry.