A capsule of plastic and tin,
wildly careening on great
curling concrete slabs.
Projectiles propel past,
harrowed faces in smeared glass,
my cabby vies for position.
A folded paper on the seat
where the wide eyed slain girl
wonders what Wednesday
morning means or ever meant.
We all arrive just before or after,
and of course, this difference is crucial.

And what of my world-weary
aching anti-hero pose?
What is it when I can’t recall a thing,
but the lie I told when weak?
Where’s my camera crew and what
is this thought that won’t quite form?

Perhaps how far I have and have not come.

10/26/2007

Author's Note: Take me home.

Posted on 10/26/2007
Copyright © 2025 David Hill