Two Poems by Richard Dinges, Jr.

A quiet beat against
brake drums, sleet
slimed windshields
wiped clean
with one thrust,
blinded by headlights
flashing on and off
when I pass, lips
mouthing obscenities
or prayers, white
knuckles on wheels
with single fingers
pointing toward heaven.
I cannot see where
one lane ends and
another begins, this
long road home,
a boring selection
of songs and blaring
horns.  I turn onto
a quiet dark street
where everyone hides
behind drawn drapes,
until I pull into
my garage, close
the door and hold
my breath in silence.

Clocks and counters and digital
timers line shelves and desks
and kitchen counters,
our love of time and alarms,
addiction to clocks with thin
hands rubbing fat bellies
on walls erected to stop us
from going too far too fast,
to face what moves despite
our idle feet, our hands
at our sides at 6:32.
We linger briefly to synchronize
our place on this flat plain,
until another scream launches
toward another deadline,
as if our lives depended on it,
another set of handcuffs
laced lovingly in gold
around our wrists, ever tightening,
until pulse and time match,
our hearts content, riding
the pendulum to its dizzying
end, falling from the sky
with wings too small to fly.

Richard Dinges, Jr.