Away
I leave the coffee shop at City College and drive
the shortest route home through the projects.
Snow travels with me
opening my eyes
to midnight on Centennial Street
as my car slips to a stop in front of a dilapidated house.
I stare at an easy chair slumped against the house,
at rags rotting in the gutter. I start to drive
away but instead become a prisoner of Centennial Street
as the storm slowly covers the projects.
I’ve driven through before, but always with blind eyes.
Now, the storm teases me
by covering the world and dancing around me.
Rags transform into lace, the house
and chair huddle into perfect white, dazzling my eyes.
I notice the heat inside my car and wonder, Should I drive?
But I ache to touch every part of the projects,
to abandon my car and run through the street,
to devour the night-bright street,
and revel in the ivory corners surrounding me.
I want the snow that masks the projects,
that masks Centennial Street and the house,
to last. I want the storm to drive
the sun away, to stop the sun’s morning eyes
from melting the magic now hovering before my eyes.
I beg tomorrow’s sun not to steal lace from the street.
I grip the steering wheel. I’ll drive.
Instead, I wait and imagine the sun staring at me,
at the broken houses,
and chairs in the projects.
I know if it finds me in these projects,
my eyes
will recognize the dilapidated house
as it emerges from its Centennial Street,
midnight blanket. Then nothing will free me
from recognizing the lies. I must drive.
Yet, leaving the projects in transcendent white can’t free me
from the decrepit house, the broken street,
or from recognizing the deceit my eyes see. I can’t drive.
