The Bitter End

This freeway
at rush hour
crowded but flowing,
in nervous jerks
of the wheel
anticipates disaster.

And I can see it:
the rapture
of poetry, of angels
hanging
(a little ways out)
in secret fascinations;
yours was for the hirsute
toll booth operator--
Dom, I think--
who between quarters
had his nose buried
between the pages
of the Modern Library.

Still always the nod,
alert and flirty,
as far as it goes.
We have no language
except for eyes
driver to driver,
across metal, through glass.
There are collisions
suggested,
averted,
allowed.
This is

cacophony.

Words are hurdling
off bridges and
sliding
off exits.  This is
the exhaustion of escape
as you roll (uneasily)
into the last
parking spot.

These parallel lives
each owns its own
bar stool, plays
the same tunes
on the jukebox,
waits--more or less--
for the very same girl.

The bar back reflects
blue neon
The Bitter End
in ropey cursive
that slips
from snapping lasso
to swinging noose.