the wake

Something always ends up by the wayside. Something is always missed. No surprises-- almost everything happens at once. Even the things that happen to other people. Even the things that shouldn't happen at all. I go to sleep to the sound of the radio, to the crackling of the television. I go to sleep on the floors of strange houses, angry voices still pacing the halls. It is no wonder to be lost. It is no wonder to awaken so strange.

I wake up and the day is waiting. The dawn arrives, peeping through the blinds. Strange gusts of birds and sparse traffic. A knot in the wind, and anchor wed to flesh. The way the temperature is carried in the shoulders. The way the prayers seem to steam up from the grates. A flag loosed to the sky, save for the pole. A portion of smoke measured against this ravenous appetite.

There is always a part I meant to say. A few warm words, muttered in the hollow of a throat. That special phrase that runs circles around my heart. The streetlights flicker out, and there is water on the sidewalk. The early runner is visible by the light strapped to his head. He takes in stride the sprinklers and the refuse. We exchange greetings, then cling to separate directions. Distance is always growing. What was missed just trails in the wake.