Road Salt
I
Tis the season -
of loss or of change?
I was told both.
But first I drove from home to sleepless couches.
From quiet to frightening neighbors.
I drove on a warm December’s sheet of ice
and passed mile after mile of backed up traffic.
I drove carefully,
painting mundane trails of dark asphalt.
Trying and failing to paint within the given lines.
What of interest happens inside a coloring book’s lines, anyways?
So - now my car is drowning -
it cannot swim.
Muddy and grass-stained,
flipped and sinking.
Ah - no surprise
Twisted metal to be more beautiful than flawless Cadillacs.
II
Now, I sit and wait.
Hanging crosses and tying scarves.
A wearable noose for a lipstick smile.
I wait - counting silver - of bent doors, tires, and roofs.
A reflection skittering by to frighten me.
A recurring image of the distant family friend.
He who died all alone.
He who shocked us all with a faulty heart.
None were shocked to feel their eyes turn to salt -
as nostalgia floods over the chests of people ready to trade him places.
So, I sit and wait.
Wearing a tasteful noose.
Salting my counted silver and coloring outside the lines.
No degree of bad habit can erase the face I expect to see.
No small piece of advice can change the weathered countenance
that will walk in with salted eyes.
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