I am stopped at a red light, hand cupped
on faux-leather steering wheel, radio
crooning as if for me alone, cold night
knocking on glass and me, warm in
my financed cocoon, not answering.
These are the moments, between work
and sleep, running from one task to
the next, I catch my breath, relax. Only
now a truck pulls up behind me, high
beams assaulting my eyes, and
a bolt of anger cocks me like a gun:
ready to flag down a god, to storm out
into the cold and confront my demons.
Then the light turns green. The brights
recede, turn off down another street, go home.
In the returning calm I think, perhaps the driver
was lost in thought. Perhaps they wished
to start a fight. Or perhaps I was seeing what I
wished to see—everything perfect, but for this.
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