The Intersection
Taillights gather up ahead
and glitter in the brittle
black of another holiday
passed by. We are derelict,
driving to our homes, to
our beds; betrayed in our
appetites, we scratch our
necks, massage the temples,
our headaches landing like
piled notes in a Handel
choir. We pull forward,
inch closer to sleep,
comfortable that time
is not a fallacy, that there
will be morning again—
the carriage and canter
of another chance. We
are given the green, move
from brake to gas pedal,
hear a siren wail some-
where across town. Wait.
