The storyboard of a Saturday, our view over
of a flickering, modern skyline haunts our attachment
to fleeting time, even if we know that we will never
really catch the slow, plodding car ahead of us that
can’t seem to pick a lane and stay in it.
45 miles per hour in a winter rain obliges us to use the
passenger side door window as a self-evident filter that
keeps the rain out, even as each drop slides up the glass
and tries to get in after floating like a pearl over the dead.
I ask her to lean back so that I can twist my neck and
gaze at the faded height of
breadth of the cemetery through the speckled afternoon.
“I’ll take a picture” she says. “Keep your eyes on the road.
We don’t want to get in a wreck."
"I’ll take a picture so you can to see the same view as me.
You'll be able to relive the experience through the photo.”
How do I tell her what I know? The moment is gone,
there is nothing but the present and her photograph
captures only ghosts, only a view of a city both dead and
alive. We cross the bridge and “We should make time to
visit the city when it's not raining” is all I can say.
This is just a little poem that I'm working on. Any constructive criticism is appreciated.
*Picture taken by my wife with some focused "editing" on my part.
