Everything Through Nothing
Sometimes, I can see
everything
through
nothing.
Like peering through the lenses of your glasses,
through the specks
and dust
and smudges
of accidental fingertips. Like
looking through the pane of a
wind-beaten window, clouded with dirt, the
sunshine creating a glare, so you
tilt your head
this way
and that
until you see it. The sign
on the interstate, telling you
you’re 76 miles from Tuscon
and 103 from Tempe.
All you can feel is the
hot, hot, wind of the desert,
like the ever mysterious gust
every time you open the oven,
and the faint prospect that
maybe,
just
maybe
you’ll soon see the neon glow of
an Exxon gas station. That
pegasus waits a few miles down,
telling you that
finally
finally
you can take a leak. And there it is,
bright on the horizon, as if
it’s been waiting. As you
pull into the parking lot, you beg
for the 75 cents to buy a twistytop
koolaid bottle, so you can
repeat
this
process
a few hours from now, driving through
New Mexico.
On the way to the bathroom,
you see all the
candies and chips.
But it’s like your mother always says:
look
don’t
touch,
so you walk quickly to the one roomed bathroom,
avoiding temptation.
As you leave
the grimy bathroom stall
and feels the cold, empty air of the
convenient store, you write your
name on the inside of the frozen
plexiglass door with a
small, dirty finger. But one letter
always seems to
turns
out
backwards,
no matter how hard you try
to write it right.
As you grab your drink
from the flimsy plastic rack
suction-cupped to the door,
you look out to your car,
the backseat stuffed with coolers
and blankets; your little
nest, where your chickenlegs fit
perfectly when you prop them
up against the seat in front of
you and you can feel the car buzzing
beneath you, pushing forward
faster
and
faster
and you look out the window but
you can’t see anything but blurs,
and shapes
and colors
and flashes
of light
and it’s
beautiful
it’s the most beautiful thing
you’ve seen since
you chipped your tooth against
the pavement and you
ran your tongue across the ridged
edge, and you liked it.
And you knew life
began
where
you
stood,
looking.
everything
through
nothing.
Like peering through the lenses of your glasses,
through the specks
and dust
and smudges
of accidental fingertips. Like
looking through the pane of a
wind-beaten window, clouded with dirt, the
sunshine creating a glare, so you
tilt your head
this way
and that
until you see it. The sign
on the interstate, telling you
you’re 76 miles from Tuscon
and 103 from Tempe.
All you can feel is the
hot, hot, wind of the desert,
like the ever mysterious gust
every time you open the oven,
and the faint prospect that
maybe,
just
maybe
you’ll soon see the neon glow of
an Exxon gas station. That
pegasus waits a few miles down,
telling you that
finally
finally
you can take a leak. And there it is,
bright on the horizon, as if
it’s been waiting. As you
pull into the parking lot, you beg
for the 75 cents to buy a twistytop
koolaid bottle, so you can
repeat
this
process
a few hours from now, driving through
New Mexico.
On the way to the bathroom,
you see all the
candies and chips.
But it’s like your mother always says:
look
don’t
touch,
so you walk quickly to the one roomed bathroom,
avoiding temptation.
As you leave
the grimy bathroom stall
and feels the cold, empty air of the
convenient store, you write your
name on the inside of the frozen
plexiglass door with a
small, dirty finger. But one letter
always seems to
turns
out
backwards,
no matter how hard you try
to write it right.
As you grab your drink
from the flimsy plastic rack
suction-cupped to the door,
you look out to your car,
the backseat stuffed with coolers
and blankets; your little
nest, where your chickenlegs fit
perfectly when you prop them
up against the seat in front of
you and you can feel the car buzzing
beneath you, pushing forward
faster
and
faster
and you look out the window but
you can’t see anything but blurs,
and shapes
and colors
and flashes
of light
and it’s
beautiful
it’s the most beautiful thing
you’ve seen since
you chipped your tooth against
the pavement and you
ran your tongue across the ridged
edge, and you liked it.
And you knew life
began
where
you
stood,
looking.