The Car of Me

Each day, I get the vehicle
in gear – and know that all
I have to do is drive the thing –
pay some attention on the way –
pick up the to-and-fro
peripherally swaying on
the left and right, then take

a fuller stoplight view – pursue
a change of course – or merely
roam – or more remorsefully
decide to turn around and go
back home: a confluence
of destiny and chance
besets each nano-moment

of perception: tugged
as if involuntarily yet
at the same time exercising
a volition: choice can waltz
with reflex; does, in fact, its
dance with chance each small
synaptic prance I undergo –

today I’ll see a man with whom
I’ve made a ton of secret love
exact attention from an audience:
leaping jazzily above, below,
around and through the air
among a troupe of other dancers:
much as he and I and we’ve

ensnared each other in our private
shadows; he will demonstrate
to all his fine liquidity. The car
of me will stop there for a while,
start again, and then
vamoose into another den
of blessings and iniquity.

.