by Benjamin Schmitt
A car is smoke
and mirrors traveling at sixty miles an hour.
Lawyers in mirror
may run backwards,
shouting until they appear
holding hands and singing the ballads
of the French Revolution.
On-again/off-again ramps
continue relationships
all over America. Bad husbands
look for the unmarked exits
descending into suburbs of we.
Now that I have a kid
everyone is a sleep therapist.
People I’ve never met
are calling me up
to ask if I sleep. They call all night.
I can’t sleep but the baby snores
in her crib. The
only way to escape is in a car
at the speed of light
reducing distance
until you are traveling no more
but are instead standing still
at both your origin and destination.
Loved ones in mirror
may shrink
until they do not appear,
a single quantum existing
in all directions.