Dark house fronts surround me,
curtains drawn, small sparks of light hinting
at lives lived behind glass.
I stand silent in the bruising yellow dusk
or the grayness of the coming dawn,
waiting in silent tracts,
down pensive alleys,
on darkened streets;
pockets of living,
me out here,
wandering these silent roads to nowhere.
Racing along Southern California freeways,
two a.m., windows downand moving at 80.
The iciness of midnight airkeeps me awake,
keeps me driving,
keeps me thinking.
Who are these people moving along beside me,
on their own roads to where ever,
fleeing their own silent no wheres?
On their ways to or away from
what wives,
what children?
What fears and addictions and hatreds?
What silences of their own?
Pockets of living,
and me in here,
running these roads to nowhere.
Six a.m.
somewhere between Long Beach and Seattle
on the 101, heading north.It is just barely dawn,
and cold: valley fog whisperingin the folds of hill and stream.
Caffeinated eyes peer through closed windows,
past empty fields to homes just coming alive,
shaking off the silence and darkness of sleep,
blinking warily alone;
pockets of living,
houses removed and remote,
scattered along these silent searching roads
to nowhere.
