On the Way Home

Rainwater glistens on the coal-black streets.
—What will they think when I tell them?
Frenzied wipers whisk away freshly fallen beads.
—How should I introduce the topic?
The light stays obstinately red; my turn signal ticks.
—Will they still accept me?
Soft splashes and brief white glares herald each passing car.
—I stare ahead in silence.

No comments:

Post a Comment