remember you are a hitchhiker

remember you are a hitchhiker

Take in a little too much April sun

in porch-front wicker chairs, then sip on the clink

of ice, sip chatter in the trees. Run 

your tongue along the salted lip and think

about how beautiful it is to taste, 

to be. Chew up this April evening like

you’ll never eat again, and laugh at haste

and Mondays and deadlines and all the subtle tricks

of iPhone clocks that lure you further from

this holy present. 

                             But for every moment of this, 

go walking in the street. See a worm 

half-crushed half-wriggling on the asphalt, twisting 

like a chained-up dog. Drive by the sweat-pant

lady holding the cardboard sign. Eat fruit

gone soft.
Whatever it may be, do what

it takes to see the shadows behind the light, to remind

yourself that hitchhikers at the Motel 6

may rest, but always with their backpacks zipped, 

                                                                            shoes on.