Hydroplane

I'm tired of being 

just anyone to 

anybody. 

The cinderblocks on the highway still 

stack on top of each other. 
The rain 
still rises from the ground 

As the wheels 

Hit and skid 

across it:

I think of the Great Wall of China. 

Bodies being strewn into 
the building blocks, 
akimbo, accidentally

we hope, as it was being built--

let's not correct that thought. 

For the moment, let's not 

correct that thought.

I am at a crossroads again

And I am stuck like 

In cement. 

It is real that these cars in the rain 

could crush me. 

It is real that I have a home that 
feels comforting but 
not mine;

It is just as real that 

my home is not with my father.

I don't know anymore 

who is to blame. My instincts say it's 

probably him. 

And men, and 

them not fighting 

for their kids. 

And the anger it 

creates inside us all.

No one decent kicks a clueless dog,

though,

do they?

. . .

I am a writer;

that's what I do.

I take pictures; 

that's what I do. 

But it doesn't always 

clear away the cobwebs 

or the pain 

or the waste of time 

of love 

of memories. 

So I want to 
start a new book. 

I want it to be called 

Emotional Debts. I

still want to write 

my book called 

"If you're not on 

prescription meds 

I don't trust you."

I know it's laughable. 

Or at least it's 

been laughed at. 

. . .

For now there's 

just the cinderblocks,

keeping me from 

going too far left 

or too far right. 

And the steady clicking

of my turn signal. 

And the squeaks 

and grunts of the 

windowshield wipers 

keeping a modicum 

of drops from 

affecting my sight.

. . . . .

Erika S. Haines