we'll probably never wake up at three
to watch the magnolia trees wrap themselves in streetlamps
or to watch for cars
with faint lights,
predicting the weather
inaccurately
in a language we've already spoken.
the pavement melts
and sweats with the stroke of tires
so early
and swift,
petals forming plastic tumbleweeds on the highways
that go south,
soundproofed
waking dreams, cars pretending to drive home, following the motions
to unnamed exits.
there are no bridges backlit by the sun.
(i've been dawn here before)
there are no distractions,
only waiting,
waiting on sanded curbs with chipped edges.
it’s where the gutter meets the road
hating their rides on intersections,
misconceptions of desire, running softly interstate
but dreading that it'll end soon with a
last gasp of carbon monoxide.
the simmer’s started now, with
freckles running down my fingertips,knowing i've outgrown concrete blocks and juice in dixie cups
and magnolia streets
that i’ve never bothered to notice till now,
shadowed by the waterfalls we never predicted.