From here, the view up on the hill is blind;
across the street dissolves in hectic days
as every driver inching through the line
obstructs the passage back across that way.
Travelers trapped in traffic frown, distraught–
the cell connections here are always dead,
and as you crawl in transit, speeding thoughts
race me to the highway in your stead.
Roads rise like mountains, monuments still stand;
sepulchers, relentless, grimace gray. You’ve
been grounded like a ship condemned to land,
your stillness painful as I start to move.
You sit cemented, and of course, I’m torn
you barely idle while I am transformed.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt
copyright Jan. 20, 2006