We took a taxi this year.
I’m not good in cabs.
But it was late fall,
the last taste of rain;
the construction projects
finally ended, snowplows
were slowly coming out,
and we had to move on.
There was a lot of rubble, walls
that hadn’t been painted,
flagstones cracked and wild.
I was preoccupied, loaded
with maps and phone numbers
and tiny blueprints of rooms.
Do you ever get the feeling
you might have to run?
I remember waiting,
watching out the window,
counting the headlights,
calculating the distance
to the ground in case
I decided to jump,
in case I had to,
holding my breath,
subtracting the favors
from all the farewells.
At some point,
the taxi pulled up.
We get out of town.
We come back.
Next year will take forever.
Maybe the curbs will be gradual.
Maybe the traffic will bend,
my open palms will touch pure sky.
Every escape gets quieter.
The trees, the concrete of life.