I fall over indecent like
tires rolling over unplowed snow
carpeting interstate ninety five.
Wind shield wipers caked in wet snow
thump back and forth,
the road, brown,
the windshield, freezing, nothing is naked
but thoughts.
And I jump indecent out of clothes and
My coworkers at lunch
Sit naked in my mind
And the wipers keep moving,
Break on, off, on
I remember the dead dog lying on this road
Summer
And I left that dog for the dead,
It had to be dead
Like lunch, the lunch today at Pickles
A hole in the wall carved out of an old garage,
Having lunch with the guys
And there they are,
Just guys,
happy in their own skin
And on the walk back Tim and Andrew waltz and point out
That they don’t watch shows like Cops
-They miss so much culture
And they don’t have bad dates that require mouthwash
And they’ve been to twelve countries and sixteen languages
And they use words like bombastic and decadent
and they know about Halloween Parties and
so much snow-
I really like Tim, but his eyes pass over me
like I am indecent, like I pass by maybe dead dogs
dying on clear summer roads.
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