I held my hand out, past the stream of
running water and the trickles of sand
that measure up and gather momentarily
in cupped leaky palms.
It's always a pitty when you can't see
past the end of your own over-egotistical nose,
even for a moment long enough to ask
how I've been, where I've traveled,
who I've loved and when.
I can't stand how the driveway looks,
curving to the left as though it owns
the road that follows- you walk up
and down it waiting for the signal
that will never come, because it was
burned in the fire years ago.
