Notes from a Traffic Jam

Dawn Potter

Roadmaster truck creaking up from its netherworld,

swaying past the fizzing lights of a diner,

then sliding like a boxy snake into the unremembered night—

Window glimpse of optimists on a couch,

bending forward in eager profile to toast Fortune

with a pair of giant paper cups—

Oh, sometimes I fear I’ve lost the will to imagine

this comedy, this ugly beauty, this moving-picture world.

On and on it runs, trundling out the bumpkin tale of our species

yet wanting nothing from me: neither eye nor heart,

nor sneer, nor timid idle word. I bide my time in this car

like a beetle trapped on a floating weed, biting my nails,

squinting into the disembodied glare of your lanterns,

but you, you, you are a million dream-years away—

you, closing your India-print curtains against the dark;

you, shifting your haunches, humming your tune.

When I remember to hate myself,

I hate myself for not loving you enough—

you, who never lay a thought upon me.

[forthcoming in Same Old Story (CavanKerry Press, 2014)]