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Description
Time was a typecasted
Television sort of affair
The sweat, the buzz-hum never leaving the room
We didn’t feel naked, we felt
Tired
Too tired to care about clothes
As we lay in oceanic swirls of blue comforters and
A spray of damp pearl pillows
Life was going on outside of us,
This room nestled in the Sierras
A sun turning red through the window blinds
And we were quite the audience for it all

I should be dreaming! I’d yell,
The lake freezing and the sky soft and sugary
Rounded, lackadaisy tendrils of
Fog and cloud in the distance seemed to
Agree with me

And the mountains, they would boom and shake and
Rock the mountain roads with their stillness
I didn’t feel the vodka, only the steering wheel
On narrow strips of asphalt marking
The precarious perch of man
And forty miles per hour with no guard rails
At seven thousand feet

I was nothing, trapped between their boastful
Snow-covered chests
I would have
Thrown the wheel on a hard right, dropped
Countless feet to a reverberating
Something
That would echo in the canyons, and then
Maybe then
I’d be a part of it all
But the lakeside pulled me down, magnetized my eyes and
Set them to their task of
Remembering

We were
Pinbacked, like a display case in an evening classroom
Where children’s fingers touched the glass and whispered
Mariposa, mariposa,
Why aren’t you moving?

But we were, past the speed limit
On the Eighty west
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