JORDAN WILLIAMSON

The road salts of the Eastern Provinces
chew through the undercarriage.
The vague moisture of decay enters the body,
corrodes the once faultless mechanisms of the engine,
imparts a dark brown, toddler-sized stain on the driveway
like chewing tobacco spit from the lower lip of some giant.
The sky is unbothered. Too light and blue
to impose itself in any meaningful way. Alone, unthinking,
uncaring and unshowered, we meet the day
with coffee thick as dirt—callisthenics routines
the Russian cosmonauts performed prior to being blasted
toward a gorgeous, albeit probable, death.
It is going to be yet another beautiful day.

New drivers from the driving school 
practice parallel parking on my street. 
I hope more than anything 
they are enjoying life. I hope 
the anxiety that encroaches 
like the Golden Horde
keeps a safe, reasonable distance, 
allows time for correction. 
Don’t give up. Take it upon yourself 
to flip off every motorist 
who shoots an impatient glance 
in your direction. 
Fuck them & their impatience. 
Ease into it as a dancer 
eases into a leotard or a worm 
writhing in the sodden spring earth.
Don’t pay attention to butthurt assholes.
I’m here in the window 
of my living room, cheering you on.