Traffic jam at 8 1/2 in the morning

The sun, still. 
Sleeping, clouds that 
pirouette against the 
night, holding off 
naively, the onslaught 
of imminent realism.
The endless ticking of 
a circular clock. Is that
a clown I just saw outside
my window?
The bus stops. 
I’m transported. 
Enslaved in a car
motionless world that
watches as I choke
and kick
the windows. And finally
fly. Fly above the 
burnished divinity 
we’ve created until 
I soar unyielding, then 
drifting slowly above a 
friend. 
The bus moves now. 
“Wow,” I think 
That’s only the first scene. 

Vincent Piturro 

Clawed 

My cat is 
entwined in a ball 
of twine. He is love 
and he is singular. He 
reaches for the Felini 
and my foot is down 
momentarily on 
the oak table from 
my youth in the 
trailer park in 
the mountains in 
the fall of my youth. 
Smiling at my foot 
it is now a toy and I 
an adult watching 
my possessions and 
watching the purity of my 
dreams. 

J. McIntyre McAssey