The Intersection

By Timothy Juhl

Posted on

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.

Timothy Juhl