The Second Half of My Life
a poem
Forgive me,
but I must stop listening now.
No more nods & smiles
while you empty your brain at me.
It may already be too late;
boiler steam is rising.
A whistle pierces the air —
You don’t even notice when
I pivot, grab what is precious
& flee —
shunning the toll roads,
“perfectly good” thoroughfares
that would take me to the station
in an orderly fashion
in favor of shortcuts
illegal u-turns
gunning through yellows —
careening, veering, swerving
as if my very life depends
on stepping aboard —
Please, please, please,
oh train to impunity,
please don’t leave without me —
Don’t let me drown
in my own goddamn
decorum—