Poetry

Origami in my brain,
worries keep folding up.
Stupid human worries.
Red, digital numbers burn
into the back of my retina:
It is 2:35 in the morning.
I will get up at six
and drive through the blue rain
in a sea of more red taillights.
Asphalt highways flow into
other asphalt highways and
the steel girders, concrete barriers
keep us all moving in the same direction.

Once I saw a grey ghost cross the highway.
A floating plastic bag
caught in the wind—
No—a great bird
sailed over four lanes of traffic
into a meager stand of trees
and I couldn't stop myself from crying.
I felt its bones in the cold,
the way it tucks its head underneath
its wing for warmth, the hum
of traffic ten feet away from
its nest. My stupid human problems.
Nothing in comparison to survival.

I am thankful for poetry,
that insomnia and birds
can lie in bed together
while I stay awake.
No storytelling road to follow.
No chain of logic because
this does not make sense
and not much does.

Tell stories to the whales
trapped underwater with the din
of motors and beating drills.
They swim up rivers and onto beaches
to find some peace.