Things

We are like a tangle of lint
caught rolling in the draft of a moving shoe.

We are like an infant’s abandoned sock
on the floor of an empty supermarket at midnight.

We are like the cockroach shut out
of its apartment running in the hallway panicked.

We are driving down a country road
at night, double the speed limit but stopping just in time
for the raccoon to cross.
We are going so fast
we barely have enough time to stop from killing ourselves.

But we still have sunsets and moonrises and ocean waves,
the fractured reflection of moon on the water
steel blue and white flints,
the past and the present.