On Planes, Trains, and Self-driving Automobiles

We used to talk of
getting out,
leaving what was left of our souls
to find themselves without us
and
to wander between the walls that
never listened,
only heard
our talk
only heard
our desire
only took
our voices.

We used to drive
for a while,
In the cold minutes between
class and rooms
that wanted only
to teach
to educate
to catch
to keep
for a while.

Our breath would melt
–cool and frozen –
no
– chic and captured –
with the smoke from
our bellies
our lungs
our voices.
Who could tell the difference?
(Well, aside from the smell.)

Our tires used to skid, slide, seethe
on the ice.
Now, they’re somewhere between standing still and Illinois.

Is that midway?

If I drew a line to London,
Would it cut through Sears
Tower
or could I board it and get off somewhere between American Pie and London Calling?

I’d catch it if could.

There is always something catchy about strife –
but it’s so unattainable.
The things we said, did,
inhaled.
They made sense then.
I wonder how we functioned,
operated,
machinated,
motored,
drove home
any kind of point under so little sleep.
I just can’t fathom, think, imagine,
see it anymore.

Smoke gets in your eyes

For Grace: January, 2016

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