Incomplete Lives of Tired Souls

The incomplete lives of tired souls
Shirts crinkled on the front seat
of yet another identical silver hatchback car
threading sunlight through its seams
chores packed in tiny metallic compartments
of our neat little lives
that we’ve washed with eager intentions
but chose mindless solace
from a day mirror imaged and as isolating as windowpanes.
We don’t even smile at each other in the streets
we say we are avoiding the heat
but are avoiding each other
insecurities hang
in the silence unspoken in elevator lifts
in introductions not made
in hollow dull echoes of ac engines
tuning out agitated car honks
the bird’s song goes unlistened to.
And in this cubicle we return to nightly
it’s always a little too cold
always a separation in this city of dust and sand.
The engine rattles on
footsteps march in hummed out mechanic unison
while construction workers find the nearest patch
of anything green by the highway,
by a desert they sit and they talk
while we in our speeding mechanical wheels
drive past and purse our lips
in constant irritation and silence.
May 2012