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.