You rattle my cage when all I choose to see
is the rose dawn over a six-lane highway
not the nose pickers, the mother slapping her child
across the face, the masturbators who ignore
the green light.
I see more than you know. I've lingered at the prison
with a sack lunch for Marie. Mike holds the
record for going without a bath, knows my perfume
under the bridge near White River.
You can douse me with judgment, but you can't
wreck my four wheel drive.
I am on the right course. The little boy in Indonesia
remembers me when the bandages are removed.
And though he sees, and I barely do, I'm okay with that.
Somethings are better left to fog, some figures
better left to atrophy.