Afternoon Commute Love Song
Every day I approach this landscape like a crime scene:
glimpses of tiger lilies along a stitch of road,
all those violent hues
of orange and crimson abutting
dented guard rails, the shrapnel of tires.
Summer with its small explosions.
Sprigs. The interconnectedness of things.
Humidity pushing everything down
while the blacktop reflects skyward.
Most days, I am fierce behind the wheel
armed with a stone for a heart.
I seek out what’s coming and try to destroy it
before I am destroyed. The highway
with all of its whispers.
I tell you this at the risk of madness.
I know where love goes
when there is nothing be to loved—
Tree roots break through asphalt,
its branches clipped by power lines.
Every day, I hear the lecture of the organic.
Roll down your window.
Everywhere there is evidence. Remains.
I am a small hazmat team.
(Note: I can't figure out how to "tab" with Blogger. So if some of the enjambments look awkward, it's because I can't format the poem correctly. Drat!)
(Another note: I started this last Wednesday when my 45-minute commute home turned into 2.5-hour ordeal. There were 30-second stretches where the cars weren't moving so I took out my journal and wrote. I was bored--I can only listen to so much NPR in one sitting!)