On a Scale of 1-10, I am Complicit
On a Scale of 1-10, I am Complicit

It’s raining now. But I haven’t turned on the windshield wipers yet.
Ahead, tail lights line the evening’s horizon.
The highway is straight, mostly.
The radio is playing Fleetwood Mac, maybe.

I nod as the woman in the passenger’s seat tells me that she’s signing up for her local fitness studio. Three of her friends left their husbands after joining that gym.
...her first day is Monday...

It’s raining harder now. Beading up on the windshield. Distorting the road like a funhouse mirror.
She’s telling me about when she called the police.

Stevie Nicks is singing about Sweet Little Lies.
…But he’s a really good guy and it was just one time, so she didn’t press charges...

Through the windshield, the world has blurred beyond recognition.
She looks over,
as if about to ask if I can see,
and whether I’m going to turn on the wipers.

I move my hand to the knob.
Tail lights refract through so much water their distance is unknowable.
The road and horizon indistinguishable.

The rain drowns out Stevie’s voice.
I feel the ridges on my fingertips.
…And she hasn’t had a drink since the fight at Amanda’s wedding…

The rhythm of the worn windshield wipers matches Mick Fleetwood’s drum beat and,
for a moment, the road is clear,
before the rain begins to form streaked arches across the glass.
"What I want in poetry is a kind of abstract photography of the nerves, but what I like in photography is the poetry of literal pictures of the neighborhood." -John Koethe

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On a Scale of 1-10, I am Complicit - by ZHamilton - 09-15-2022, 12:46 PM

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