Spills

Shine A Light

Pathway

Transparent, Translucent, Red

Behind the Wheel

My childhood friend has moved to your street,
oblivious of you.
Now where will I park my car?
Our lives are running on terrible parallel lines.
The cross I bought
to ward you off
is a life you -
though dictating the great American novel into a tape recorder perched on your car seat -
will never understand.

So why my desire to bear the brunt of everything you?
Circle the block and park perilously close.