On the way home,
north on the highway;
falling sun on my left,
dim sundog in the clouds
to the right. Pillars
between which I roll
until I see the sundog
dead ahead.
The sun itself
has moved farther
to the left now, 

and then they are both
to my left
and the rainbow spot
once on the right has almost
come level now
with the nose corner of 
my left eye.

It’s my trajectory
that moves, not the 
sky. I know this —
but this illusion 
of change being
a destiny being achieved
beyond my own efforts
thrills me,
today at least.
One small joy
on this too often
untrustworthy path.
Today, at least,
I’m at peace,
moving between 
lights toward rest. 

You cross your fingers
and tell yourself that
if you are lucky
you will not be asked 
to open your bags
for inspection. You tote
too much of the forbidden
to be comfortable with that
if it happens. You fear
you’ll betray yourself
with your sweat
and be turned aside
for further investigation, or
be turned away completely,
ruining your last chance to 
get good and get gone. 

Or perhaps you’ll then be taken
to a stage, stripped, and told
to perform rationalizations
and apologies for an audience
who will say nothing as they stare
at the mess you’ve become,
all illnesses and stresses 
having broken through your skin
to manifest upon the body itself.
Once done, you’ll be redressed
and set back on the street
with your offending baggage.

You could tell yourself
you could try again to get by
but the line’s so much longer
than it was when you first arrived
here at this — station? terminal?
You can’t even say. You just came
because it felt like the way out;
after all, that’s what you’d been told
and the ones who told you seemed like
they had it on good authority.

The bags will seem
suspiciously lighter. 
You will open them
and rummage around
but you won’t figure out
what’s missing.

All this and you haven’t even 
packed yet. You’re waiting 
for a sign that it’s time.
You’re crossing your fingers
and swearing an oath
to take as little as you can
and still have enough
for the destination’s demands,
though you can’t know
what those will be until
you get there. What if
there’s nothing there at all?
What if it’s all provided
upon arrival, one of those
all-inclusive deals? 

Your hands are so cramped
you can’t even think straight
right now. You can’t uncross
anything about yourself 
after a lifetime of this.
You can’t just give it up,
get going, get gone. Not now,
not like this, or so
you’ve been told.

Heat’s off. Sun’s way up.
Just planted tomatoes and eggplants
are looking right
and upright, for a change.

Trash bagged and on the curb.
Recycling bins full but intact. 
Nothing got at anything left out
overnight, for a change.

Not a single dead opossum
or skunk on the road
in scent or sight, for a change.
The neighborhood can-hunters

banter pleasantly
as they divide the homes between them,
and everything gets put back 
in the right place, for a change.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary
when the ambulance arrives for
someone in the green house
across the street. But this time

someone is stretchered out — 
it’s been a while since that happened.
At least their face is showing this time,
for a change. Right up the street

await the tow trucks to move the cars
that block the path of the street sweepers
who finally have come to fulfill the prophecy
of the signs hung so long ago, no one

still believed it would happen; least of all
on a Wednesday trash day, can picking day,
garden getting started day, save the life of my child
day. All happening at once, for a change.