As I Am Extra
The sky, the water, a mix
of battleship gray and gunmetal
and dreary
sandblasting wind biting
away the tears
and eventide reflections on life's direction
diluted by a passing squall
of not much intensity, not as
a relationship requiring the focus
of a knife fight,
in a phone booth.
Thoughts slowing to a relative crawl,
the seventeen miles-per-hour I'm taught
focuses the narrative of elsewhere
in the eye inside my eye,
there's more vista
and less twist of road
as I am extra,
as language is to prayer.
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