At next intersection I stop to wait yet again. To the left I see the pump of the gas station, the hearse stomaching its fill, backdropped by the retention pond of piranha. Here I am, yes, stopped yet again, blood draining like drives of days and the long waits as if I am made, and made again rigor mortis over and over, no end.
And then a flatbed truck of trees, Birnam Landscaping, makes the opposing green my left to right. Are we all on our way to Dunsinane? Are we all running from the dead?
There is not much escaping, even in the waiting. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I shall plant red roses. But, now, now, I feel the blood rush from my whitened knuckles on the wheel, and listen to hear myself breathe.
Published by Anti-Heroin Chic,2017
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem