Driving isolates us from one another
windows up, I watch the cinema of the road
of the street of the passing fields
in some cars are reciprocatory
in others are actors in dramas
of which I see only vignettes.
The woman with the bruise:
is that the mark of a cupboard door
or a fist
The man with the crutches:
was he in an accident
or surgery
The young woman in bloom:
will she realize in time that
this is her day
I follow the eye back into the
swelling blood vessels, the contusion
caused by an incident with her
foot slipping and stopping her bathroom door
in the path of her eyebrow — ouch!
I follow the crutches back to the
hospital, the setting room, the impact
in the car against the concrete abutment — crunch!
I know the young woman will spend
the rest of her life too late
trying to catch that look
the one brief flash of
total perfection that happened today
while I was the only one watching. Damn!
