Traffic
by Tim Muren


My wife had already filed for
divorce, already called from her new
apartment to say how happy
she was we were still speaking,

and to tell me about her first day
in Denver, about the man who raged
at her on the freeway, tailgating
her, following when she exited. How
he got out of his car, beat his fists on

her hood at the light-- “And I didn’t even
do anything, I swear,” she told me.

After I’d hung up the phone
I was thinking of walking
outside, walking on out of the yard
and up Elm hill to Overlook park
where I would stare down at the river, the barges,
the distant, bone white tit of the capital building
peeking above pine trees.

I was thinking all this while returning
to my red chair, (which I so casually draped
my leg over the arm of) while staring
at the closed beige curtains, illuminated
as they were by afternoon sunlight.

I tried to imagine myself livid, screaming
at a stranger’s face that was turned away from me.
I pressed my forehead against the rolled up

window, reached in front of the windshield
to make sure she saw that I was flipping
her off, “Don’t you know how
to drive?” I yelled at her.

I was thinking about all these things
without moving, until the light changed
and she lost me in traffic.






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