windshield wipers are still

swishing

even though the rain

stopped

.

not sure when it stopped.

i watch the sun perch

through their three-second

intervals,

falling victim to their murmur

as my car vibrates into my hands

.

after thinking about

how quickly

i could jerk the wheel,

i park in the cemetery

on Hillside St.

to watch the sun reflect

off tombstones

so smooth that I could run

my finger across them

from the driver’s seat

.

a still lake of granite

that shows you how you’re really feeling

when you look down

.

the only place surprisingly light

unlike the humidity

my lungs plaster

onto Windex-streaked glass.

the grass above each lot waves to me.

despite my brain rotting

like the bones in boxes

lurking below,

brittle, dusty, fixed,

i’m the only life

in this bird-song field

of death

.

a final breath

before letting my wheels slowly roll

forward.

(6/30/20)