Windingly I Will Arrive

Windingly I Will Arrive

I apologize for coming so late,
the traffic was schismatic, and, as has
always
been my custom,
I did what I was told right up until now.
I promise, though,
I will be there by the day after tomorrow;
I swear I will make up for the time I spent away.

The blame does not lie outside me,
the choices were all mine. And everyone who
knows me
can stipulate that I never meant harm to anyone.

But looking in the mirror, seeing the headlights on my tail,
the tears of my ambitions were wiped from the windshields,
and fell on the highway behind us all.

The thunder clashed with my intentions,
the storm wrecked every itinerary on the way.
My father used to say that shortcuts were only
the longer road to get somewhere fast. I never found
one.

But, windingly I will arrive, pennies in my pockets,
pebbles in my shoes, gravel in the tire treads, and,
slightly embarrassed and more amused that
I could have walked across the street 40 years ago
to see you the way
I see you
today.

Traffic Jam and Jelly

Traffic Jam and Jelly

(“But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.” Matthew 5:39)

He left work late, rushed out the gate,
hurried to the next appointment on his calendar.
The road was slick, he changed lanes quick,
slid across the pavement into another traveler.
Neither one understood.

Traffic was slowed to a standstill from Portland past
Vancouver,
people anxious for happy hour,
families returning from the doctor,
a couple missing a dinner reservation,
the traffic helicopter captured it all for those
streaming the news on the local station.

Blood boiled, traffic stopped, an hour between exits.
People used their horns instead of brakes,
others babysat the bumper of every car in front of them.
A delivery truck overheated with a wedding cake for cargo.

Closer than sitting in a lounge together,
names were called through rolled down windows.
No one knew the occupants beside them,
and invented invectives for idiots in front,
fools behind, and assholes trying to change lanes.

No one saw the car door open, no one heard the warning buzz,
but soon sandwiches were offered at the window like
a 50s diner with roller skates. Then from the driver’s side
donuts from a pink box appeared in the hands of a newly
licensed driver
who had not been trained in the dangerous etiquette
of rage on the road.

She only served, naively it seems, buttercream resistance
to the hard slap and mocking laughs of the trigger happy
navigators,

And it showed.