Chandler Ryd
Moments pass in a blink or two.
Sniffle, and you’ve lost a quarter.
Sneeze, and you miss a smile to the girl you wish you knew.
Disillusionment of the day before—
the one that’s already a blur
on your horizon—just a splat on the windshield,
ready to get wiped away at your next breath,
then lost from your field of vision
by the rainstorm that hits each evening.
A year passes before tomorrow waves in the wet mirror,
and your memories follow
like the cans on strings unraveling one by two.
Sometimes I forget “tomorrow” is a hopeful word,
that hope and horizons can share the windshield,
because maybe the next town will hold a bed and breakfast.
Highway signs singing: Someday—
You drive because your foot hits the floor,
because Someday—
Someday might come sooner than tomorrow,
just around one more bend in the road.
No comments:
Post a Comment