My hand writes lists
it deftly stacks and straightens the shabby corners
my hand does chores
it drives the car
my hand is responsible, but
my hand writes poems
how very curious.
While doing this non-thing
time flows by
without compartments to keep it safely.
Other hand things go undone
I am tossing words into a hand basket
shaking well
and spilling  images to and fro,
usually messy,
usually disturbing
usually destroying careful continuity.
After the poetry
my and is very busy cleaning up.

At the bus station
grizzled men eat Milkyways
watching
runaways squeak around
in too-tight jeans
and babies cry to Jackson Browne
while we all read the National Enquirer
and wait.

On the bus mothers shift
bags and kids around in messy piles
the empty wrappers tell stories
while Willie Nelson competes
with static to sing in rhythm
with windshield wipers
and cigarette butts
tally the miles.

The world is unwrapped and unspun as a ball of yarn
before my eyes
it unravels
spreading then and wide, and then
as a piece of paper, a blue sheet
it stretches in front of forever
for a moment it becomes a water
and every step forward leaves less of me showing
until I disappear
and no bubbles disturb the surface.

Coyote.
Trap.
Jaws snap. (Jaws snap.)
Coyote tracks
(less a paw)
lead away.