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.
Jordan Williamson is a poet from London, Ontario. His work has featured or is forthcoming from Funicular Magazine, Fugue Journal, CV2. Grain,
Echolocation, PRISM International, among others. His debut chapbook "Love's Little Dojo" is available from Pinhole Poetry.