Where Feelings Get Off

by John Grey

Traffic crawled,

head-lamps swam in exhaust cloud

for block after interminable block.

Temperature was sticky as molasses

in late July Rhode Island.

The road idled.

Six hundred cars followed suit.

The driver ahead of me

crawled to a stop.

My foot pressed hard down

on the much reviled brake.

She leaned out of the window.

Featureless back of head

became lovely profile.

Remember when you washed

the mud from your face?

Exactly. Yes.

Clouds banked low.

The moon glowed strawberry red.

I was bored into loving this woman

like those others -

one, and only one, girl in my eighth grade class -

forties' actresses in black dresses and white gloves.

Eventually

we crept by an accident ~

two accordion cars and at least one dead man.

Traffic began to free itself.

Little voices spoke,

"Be thankful it's not you."

The woman drove straight on

as I took a left.

My vehicle could now travel a pace

more commensurate with you.