The Cadillac driver
looks away and cringes.
Her body hung with icicles
like a slant roof
dripping freezing water
in the north pole.
Even so, she fights the solid flesh
turns to the radio, and thinks:
Let’s not make eye contact.
A few more steps he’ll go away.
Maybe the next guy
can help the homeless drunk.
The same look
again and again
behind every windshield.
They turn aside, check the dashboard gauges,
re-check the radio the station
and go on driving stiff,
without making eye contact.
Maybe the next guy…
each one is thinking.
They treat me as a disease.
What have I done, except
make a bet with my son
that I can give away a jar
of coins in half an hour.
All they have to do is take a handful.
Maybe the next guy…
Tomorrow my son will have twice as much
of the left-overs.
DQ
8/17/08
