The sun is dead fish's eye buried under a cloudy sky
the color of poisoned water. On a road twisting through
several of several hundred thousand forgettable towns,
I am in awe of the optimism of children waiting for snow
and believing in Santa Claus; they are roaming in groups
along broken up pieces of sidewalk and gravel side streets.
In another life, I imagine I am a lip reader and as I drive by,
I try to find out what they are saying –
it may make a difference later.
The farmers say this winter will be worse than the last two;
but farmers are cynics and have grown used to complaining
about things they have no control over. They will prepare
and they will pray, and they will watch the price of corn
and soy. I have nothing to offer them –
not even the secrets their children discuss
while they're cutting school and imagining for a moment
that they're really getting away with something.
When I step down from the cab of the truck
I can feel the ground freezing through the soles
of my shoes; the next snow will stick,
I think. Walk into a gas station, trying to ignore
the soreness of my feet that give me
preternatural age. There's a line
and the woman behind the counter is busy flirting
with the boy in front her who is clearly trying
to buy cigarettes without identification –
in spite of all the commercials that echo in my head
I hope he succeeds. In the back of the line,
there is a young woman crying. No one is paying attention.
All women look like little girls when they cry
and they all remind me of my daughter.
I can only allow myself to cry when I'm drunk;
at least then, no one will think it's genuine. Leaving town
a black cat crosses my path. And I am a little surprised
that I find it comforting.