driving

and so, i will have said everything that i intended.
looking back (way back) it could have very well
all been left undone. unsaid. this, too.

we are not so different, you and i, though
we surely are not the same (whatever
that means to you).

i sit here and look out. i sit here and the past
speaks out. there's no liberation in this,
just one more moseying whirlpool.

if i meet you on the road and wink, know that i have
not met myself. and if i fail to wink, check
my pulse if you please.

this poem will be like myself,
unknown, unknowing and empty but
for its contents.

this poem will be like you, driving with
sunglasses, waving thanks at the dude
who let you into his lane. mystery of mysteries.