Car Wash,
Funk Soul Brother,
Little Black Sabath,
A little Doors,
A little Stern. All on
The drive to work.
Suckin’ snot down
The back of my throat,
Feeling like shit. Only
Getting to campus to finish
A paper and go to class,
Not interested in work.
Thinkin’…this is no life;
We are only the sum
Of the bonds we form,
The relationships. This shit,
This shit is nothing though
The little things are pleasing.

My hands smell like gas,
The tank was on empty,
Had to stop. Music high,
Window down on the
Highway, I push my hand
Into the airstream above
The mirror, resistant, forming
A delicate arc curving this
Way and that. My hand,
Graceful. When did they
Become graceful when
Did I become this beautiful
Thing in my own right. Why
Is there no one here to see it.

I go about my day in thoughtful repose,
My silence the aching need of your touch.