by Christopher Raley
I no longer follow the intersection’s
dire leading. Its massive lanes going
to one point or from one point trouble me
no more. I can’t even recall the time I left.
But sometimes, when I happen to drive by,
I still see every old, hated anxiety
wander the square circuit of lights—
from the burger joint to the gas station
to the supermarket to the nap
under the bushes lining the vacant building.
Transient feet are poorly shod.
Angry torsos refuse to shed torn coats.
Tired bodies thank the sun at night,
but bare heads loathe its heat at day.
Ratted beards are growing,
and dull eyes never cease to hunt for
the man who once owned them.