by Christopher Blackman
Chase Freedom
Everyone is texting and driving
on this highway, risking our lives
to send the words So true
to someone who’s so wrong.
I look out the window to half-meet the eyes
of drivers on I-95 and remember the American road
can still be beautiful this way, despite its sameness:
its hills and its heathers, the truck stops
promised for miles by billboards
next to billboards reminding us “Hell is Real.”
I remember refueling in Breezewood, PA off I-70,
back when the DC Beltway snipers were loose—
everyone stood so tentatively at their pumps,
like animals risking the water hole.
They arrested the snipers on that same highway
but in a different state, sleeping in their vehicle,
flesh and machine entwined in rest. Two days ago,
I awoke and my phone said “Your bill is due
in three days,” so I paid it through the app. Today
when I awoke, my phone said No Memories today.
Aubade
Unable to sleep, I’m comforted
by whirring early-morning trains
rushing products to all the stores of the world.
That’s only half a joke. Truly,
I’m unprepared for tomorrow’s privation.
Morning brings a holiday off work
that I don’t observe–a day for the faithless
without requirements or belief.
I consider getting up–making coffee
and watching infomercials until dawn.
Watching the guide channel
and the cascading names of programs
not just now, but later, and be comforted
by continuity. Instead, in the dark,
I count the railcars by the sound
of each one passing, and I pray the train
lasts forever. I pray that the cars continue
forever, or at least until I fall back to sleep.
****
Christopher Blackman is a poet from Columbus, Ohio. He currently lives outside of Boston.