I watch the highlights in my boxers
and the goalie breaks his stick
over the crossbar as a protest.
I take phone calls the rest of the afternoon
mostly wrong numbers seeking
numerical directions to their loved ones.
I help find them in the phone book
I’ve kept open to the same page
since I snatched it torn up somewhere
on the highway.
Dodging traffic holding hands with her
has always been a dance for us.
We both lead based on who can find
the gaps first.
She’s the kind of person who’s whole
day could crash from just a glimpse
of roadkill, since in her world
there are things that shouldn’t die.
In the bright parts of my blackout
I can see clear through the windshield
to the city we are cutting through
to get back to the West side from the East.
Liquor store glass surrounds me now
while I pay the listed price and the investment
pays off peacefully for everyone.
I see children on the road again
scraping handed down scythe’s
over the pavement as a warning to whoever
breaches etiquette.
Their school teachers let them tag their purple
cars with red paint because it isn’t worth
the trouble to detain them.
The messages are always something simple
like the basics of profanity but their latest
work is something to be grateful for.
“I can read now, so please fuck off
and just let me.”
Teleporting Typewriter 