by John Grey
Disturbing my narrative,
the cat named Suzanne,
the sign broadcasting
sleepy motel rooms
to the speeders on the highway,
the boring conference,
the glittering disco ball.
I cannot move forward
if one-year-olds cry,
email pops up in my computer,
a slim body with firm breasts
shares the same elevator,
a tattoo rises up from human flesh
in the shape of the devil.
Distractions are everywhere.
Is this what my life really is?
The sum of everything
that takes it away from itself?
I was hoping I could plot a straight line
but then a blistering hot wind intervened,
a sickness gate-crashed my blood,
it rained, it snowed, a crow landed on my windowsill.
The crush of people,
the way ahead is leaving me behind.