Bugs splatter on my windshield
like raindrops, obscuring my sight.
Wheels drum across the battered
highway. Count the white dashes. One
hundred seventy-six each mile. My elbow
sun-kissed, rays scattered through cumulonimbus
clouds. Eyes find it hard to resist the lullaby.
Lids droop. The car meanders to opposite
lane. Coffee breaks slumber’s pull. Take
the last exit on the left. Catch up with the rain.
Start over with a clean windshield.
Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge
Weary travelers cross, some daily. Never-ending
commutes for locals. Exhaustion.
Its caissons embedded deep like faith. The cables
sound as harp strings if plucked. A symphony
of life in motion, juxtaposed with the water below. Suspended
like belief in a higher power.
The bridge keeps its travelers dry though fear
of the big earthquake lingers. Carried over obstacles,
can they overcome the same in their own lives?
Memory’s eye scans the bare walls,
searches the outlines etched in smoke
stains. See the happy family portrait
in memory on the corner wall by the kitchen.
The happy family. Memory’s eye isn’t so reliable
after all. Hallways dark from filaments, fractured,
nights of knock-down, drag-out cat and mouse
games. Emptied rooms retain the sounds, whispers
of dreams, tears shed hoping for picture-perfect family.
Memory’s eye is cloudy.