by Crystal Williams
She is merging onto the Edsel Ford Freeway in a car
no longer made,
in a city that no longer makes it, talking on her cellular
phone, slouched to the left,
fingernails purple & red & caging the wheel, head cocked
& foot heavy.
In pursuit of a race car, she has bought a roll of black
duct tape, has rolled three racing stripes down the sedan’s hood
as if she has been whispering with Buddha & he said, Sister,
relinquish your resistance, your discomfort, forsake
your ego. Which she has done, which is what it means
to want but not have
in a city stacked with desire, to know that desire
is our most ruinous trait,
the moment in the morning
when you decide to be unsatisfied & unhappy.
Our want is just one of many in a line of wants
& the line of wants is ancillary to the line of needs.
People close to you are hungry & you have ignored it.
People close to you have lost their jobs.
Today somebody’s mother has died.
Today somebody’s child has been murdered.
Today some body lost sight. & your Lumina runs.
Your Lumina runs well; Luminosity,
woman: No one is coming to save you.
There is nothing from which to be saved.