These Cars

All these cars

are shaped the same -

blobs in the Autumn light

I know how to start

and I know how to end

it’s filling in the middle

that perplexes me

A crayola

a blank page

and lines from my own head

It’s all a great cycle

I tell myself

but I’m stuck with one loop

This may just be

a seasonal slant

rebutting a different

perspective

Every rut

has its down side

and its upside

But then again, tell that

to the rusted, abandoned thing

sitting, running-board deep

in a dried-out swamp

And what do you get?

The thought that bumper

to bumper, it might just be you

The leaves bury these things

centimeter by centimeter

over the years, and yet

Sometimes

in the middle of the night

I roll over

into Spring.