On the morning commute,
faces flash by,
their windshields film screens,
playing a flickering moment
of their screenplay.

The wagon is in a critical state,
no eyes on the road.
The flatbed is dreaming
with cigarettes.
The minivan has broken into chaos.

But the drama of the convertible,
hair flying, a storm of gesticulation,
sunglasses the only mirrored calmness,
makes me wish I were
more than a voyeur.

As they speed away
toward the pharmacy
I can see in the rearview mirror
that their brake lights are on,
burning small suns.

          about “suns” | flowers >


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