I felt it this week: the gears shift beneath me as neurons sputter to start again.

There’s a thick oil — sludge left over from years of running idle.

I’ve puttered by an expired meter with nowhere to arrive and everywhere to go.

If I look down at my hands I can read their sleepiness like a bedtime story.

My eyes do that thing we see dogs do when they are weary but stay guarded for us all.

Do I pull myself into the warm garage, allow the door to fall to the concrete behind me?

Do I turn the key back — cut the engine ?

There’s a winding map by the door, its corners curling in hopes I’ll see.

Send the mechanic, she must know what to do.

Wrap my fingers ’round the steering wheel.

Turn the radio dial on to that song that always reminds me of you.

Get out for a quick stretch if I must.

Then: Catch the light as it turns green — the blinking yellow had her moment and there’s no time for red now.

I’m on my way.

I’m on my way.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: