Traffic Life : Passionate Tales and Exit Strategies
Edited by Stephan Wehner
An Anthology
 
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160 Three Poems from Asphalt harder, louder, jump on one foot and scream. You mustn't stare, try not to stare, can't stare, stare anyway, at the little one not jumping, the little one with finger in mouth making sounds because she has no one to talk to. The little one reminds you of your sister, your little sister, your fat sister, your pain-in-the-ass sister, the sister that calls too late, the sister that grew too fast, the sister that you don't talk to anymore. Pavement By now you should be thinking about what this really means You should be thinking about where this could be going, about where you could be going. Without headlights, lap belt, and wheel you will die, shot out of the window, thrown through the windshield, into darkness, onto pavement, gravel, dirt. That's it. Instead you look down, shift your foot against the curb, push off, open your eyes. The force is not enough to hold you there. You are centered and rooted, but your head is light, all you see is a bumper sticker that reads Whatever, asphalt reflected in chrome, a plastic dog on the back- dash of the car that just left you.
  
Ray McManus 161 Main Street at Eighty is one big blur, a sunny eastside, before the last street, curb, post, and walk, the last stroller, squeak, and scream, before you forget about the force around your waist and neck, the planting of foot and seat, the shift itself, everything moving too fast to pin down, and you have only scuffed the surface: hotdog vender, elm tree, street sweeper, speed bump, then car wreck, hemorrhage-what's in, out, gone. And it should mean more than crack, block, or cavity, more than old bolts and sockets, lungs and rearview mirrors, what comes out of them, what goes in-asphalt, gas, and stain, something slick, soft- a small blue sandal in the middle of the intersection.

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