She’s not the wind that rushes
past traffic and pushes bruised
clouds into a subjective corner.
She’s not the intimate sigh between
the flashing break light,
wanting for a respite.
She’s not the thought in my
rear view mirror spinning repression
into an eddy of abandoned eternity.
She’s not the frozen guide rail
holding back an unseen calamity
that we trust and know.
She’s just behind others
waiting for the light to change
and a warmth to enter her deep shadows
He’ll wait…he’ll wait…
©2017 Digestible Ink
Image: Wiki Commons