BY ZUMWALT
Copyright is held by the author.
Chopin, my Corolla, and the endless yellow line,
at 1:38 AM and counting,
speed steadily towards Riverside.
A single, unwavering commandment
that spools from out of the darkness,
decrees “Thou shall stay awake,”
yet my eyelids are tempted to another path.
I follow with a faith I haven’t felt
since I scored a driver’s license.
Chopin swapped with hard-edged rock,
volume upped;
eyelids still trending down.
The guitarist transforms line into dialogue;
I am in a tunnel of transparency,
hearing a sermon of straight and narrow.
A road sign points a finger towards my eyes:
eyelids, together, request closure for a very brief moment.
My skull is a planetarium of cheap stars,
the car, a projectile in Zeno’s oldest paradox.
My hands on the wheel grasp at memories of a girlfriend’s shoulder —
my eyelids, close, promising to soon re-open.
My mind is me, I am my mind.
We sweep over the wallpaper on the road.
She now holds my hand, and leads the way.
My eyelids break their promise.
***
Zumwalt’s poetry feeds on alienation, shifting reality, and forced adaptation. His work has appeared in Ink Sweat & Tears, multiple times in The New Verse News, and in other publications. Munch on additional poems at https://zumpoems.com/tag/zumwalt/