That's Not Going Anywhere

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THAT’S NOT GOING ANYWHERE


Time was I trailed safely behind

the assumption that they wouldn’t let someone


haul such an assemblage of bric-a-brac

unless they knew for a fact they knew 


what they were doing. In the ensuing 

years I have since come into  


a load of my own, a thick tangle

of ratchet straps and a secondhand

 

fifth wheel, then watched as the rusty 

narrative began to swerve, and with a jolt


at last swing loose. Like everyone else 

who hauls around the odd angles 


of their life, breath partially held 

and eyes bouncing back and forth 


from road to rearview, the hope has changed

lanes, merging into the slower


desire to just get where we’re going

with something to show for it 


and nobody seriously hurt on the way.


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