Halfway North

We got an hour back on Sunday,

hundreds of years ago, when there was still

some modicum of hope.

And then the wind came through like a train

on Tuesday, pulling all the leaves down with it

and heaping it into wet greasy piles along the road

while people lined up and marked their ballots.

It was dark long before the polls closed,

yellow light spilling out of concrete rectangles in churches

and town halls and courthouses.

Wednesday broke like an axe splitting wet wood

so I parted the gray curtain of the day

with my dirty gears, wary of squirrels running

left to right across the trail, disappearing like

torn fragments into trees already bare.

Lane Assist System Error,

my car tells me on the way home, confused

by the leaves, the construction, the dark streets.

Acclimated Cruise Control Error!

Crash Mitigation System Error!

No shit,

we all crossed lanes and drove right into it,

opened our arms and let it come in.

In the grim, in the dim, I see my neighbors

standing on the sidewalk and I back up and join them;

four of us standing there mainly not talking

with all the yard signs behind us,

dumbfounded but not surprised.

Well, there’s always the specter of death,

I say, helpfully.

Who knows what the future will bring.

I’ll call the dealer in the morning.

I’ll be extra careful when I drive,

like the old days.

I’ll watch for drunk drivers,

for the cars ahead of me that brake suddenly,

I’ll watch for deer.

I’ll watch out for you, too.