Journal Fifty-Two Serious Looks on Cloudy Days

Even more knitting today. More knitting and more driving and tomorrow will be more of the same. There was a storm tonight and that was nice. I do enjoy a storm. But I'm tired, so no bullshit cutesy intro tonight. Just posting.

Slow Dancer

In the parking lot
of an office supply store
it's getting dark early,
the crawl of cloud
over sunlight,
another spring storm
coming over slow
like people ambling
from the grave toward town,
toward lights, toward other,
non-zombied people.

There's rain, so I roll
up the window,
quit pretending
I've got a cigarette,
quit pretending
I have nothing better to do
than sit here in my car
and wait out the shuffling darkness,
the creepy upward pull
of a blanket over the head
of a corpse. This one's gone cold.

It's cold now too,
which is spring for you,
the halfway point to swelter.
I touch the window glass
and it's like the barefoot floor
of a winter morning,
an advertisement for carpeting
your whole damn house.

A cop car passes
and its siren mixes with lightning
so the air is colored
like a disco, but one with menace,
one where every dancer
is shaking thunder
and colliding airs
of different degrees.