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Marjorie Buettner

Three A.M.

Driving to work at three a.m. to a job that gnaws at my sleep leaving me yellow and soft like a half-eaten apple, I see at the stop light the white exhaust in the rear view mirror float up from the back then forward, preceding me.  It is shaped like a fading ghost, captured in a flight it does not understand.  For a while, I follow the eyes and the beckoning finger until it becomes a memory of something else, of someone else.  I turn the wheel over and let the car drive me forward; the scent of cloves still in the air.

late for work . . .
yearning to take
the long way around