Stick Shift

I drew the lines around the words. Accommodating what must be constant. I pleased the stroke until it was ready to fit everything inside it. That I needed it to hold.

Soft-sided suitcases with wheels under them. As we scurry toward the temporary stairways that will take us to places we've never been.

He never looked at me. I always wanted him to, but he wouldn't. He was a pumpkin with eyes cut out. Candle inside to make them light up. He had a cap where they'd scooped everything out, but I never could pick it up. Prove to myself that whatever was once inside had long since been discarded.

I made the words. Then. Now. Frivolous truths interfering with my own. There are no photographs other than the pictures that we draw. Every color. Every line. Chasing the arc of intent.

Stale salamander moves through the concrete jungle. So lost. So many scales that won't balance.

Press the clutch. Shift the gear. As if this gasoline would listen. Abide by the patterns we attempt to draw.

So quickly we go nowhere.

It's only second gear, but already we've stalled.