trench stench

My truck seemed to drive better
after the oil change, psychomatic of course.
It was sixty-five for the first time
in six months, the city streets were crawling.
Maybe that's why I didn't notice at first.

But when the novelty of warmth faded
and my eyes unhooked themselves
from the red light I realized where I was.
They poured down the marble stairs
like ants fleeing a hill.

My foot floored the brake pedal
while longing for the accelerator.
My hand reached for the volume knob.
I turned it clockwise, heard his
"Don't you hate it when it turns out..."
get progressively louder.
My hand swiped the knob a few times
even after the volume had been maxed out.

It was like when a soldier keeps pulling the trigger
long after his clip's been emptied, but in my case
there was no seasoned veteran to come
snap me out of it in time to dodge the bullets.
The mortars had thinned to the platoon to a squad
to a one-man kamikaze mission.
I have a receipt to prove it all.

There was still time to dig the foxhole deeper, though.
There still is.
It just gets too quiet sometimes, even for a hermit.
And pretty soon I fear I'll hit magma.

A green light never brought such composure.

Anyone
can be replaced.
Most have been.

I swear I'm trying my hardest.
Check my knuckles.



Currently reading:
"Go West, Young Toad" by Gerald Locklin.