Dead on Fort Crook
The radiator plumes.
I've overheated, it seems.
I flip on the hazards
and sit while ablebodied
cars and trucks shark
and minnow past. The senses
are heightened in times of forced
immobility. I notice, for one thing,
that the street where I've died
is called Fort Crook, that the sign
is crooked, that forms do not persist
when you are dead in traffic,
they appear and vanish like hand
tricks, irrelevant and new
forever. I light a cigarette.
Cigarettes, too, share
this newness and irrelevance
when viewed from the present.
Where did they all go?
Stalactites in my lungs, frog hops
in my chest. The radiator fumes sweep up
the cigarette smoke, then they spiral
together and become air.
I could be here all day. I don't need
help. Let me be the eyes, watching
this new irrelevance born, fading, reborn
but always fading.