Traffic

Here we are
Inside this car.
En route to nowhere,
Or maybe Mayfair.
​
Wildly wishing
We'd gone fishing.
Instead, a promise
To a Doubting Thomas.

Bitchy, itchy, apostolic,
Our devotions seem to waffle
Or waver in the iron.
Remind me now who's buying.

Emotional loot and muscle.
A twist on the usual hustle.
Years of crisscrossing.
Christmas tinsel tossing

And taking names of angels,
Who care to dine with strangers.
Affected wine with labels,
And conversation strained.

That brings me to the rain
That taps upon this hood.
The kind you wish was good,
Not tedious and pedantic.

No way is this romantic,
Reflecting in the light.
They say don't fly a kite
When a storm is brewing.

Instead our juices stewing.
We're dampening our fuses.
Prolong the big explosion.
Long sleeves over our bruises.

We're disillusioned liars.
Always setting fires,
Put out by simple gestures
That fizzle as they fester.

I picture loons in estuaries,
Waterlogged apothecaries,
Mixing tinctures from beyond
The shallow confines of their pond.

I’ve sat here a bit too long.
Reel in these thoughts that wander.
I hope I can be strong
As we are cast asunder.

9/20/20