A Buick in my rear view mirror leans in for a kiss, but I was wearing a new coat and didn’t want her to leave a stain, so I weasel my way through the lanes and find myself to be the cream of a Semi-Truck Oreo. I feel like the head of mayonnaise-topped schoolboy stuck between the guardrails of a balcony.
I pull off the freeway and follow the lights – greens and reds, never in between. I can smell the omelet waiting for me. I’m almost home. Octagon, octagon, octagon, octagon. The maddening free for all of a busy crosswalk sends me reeling. The desire to gauge myself in the headlights only digging itself deeper. It takes all I have to sit still. There are birds above and a car below that begin to sing in tandem to create a piercing lullaby of honks and caah’s. I joined in on backup vocals by screaming through my teeth.