Myth

The crush
of dirty winter cars
agonizing their way
in a curved and heaving coil
to the big city.
For what
I thought
behind my own wheel. I
watched myself
blink and excuse myself
to the shoulder
and get out
and wade into
the deep snow
in a little basin
with one crabapple tree
by an onramp. My
mother is dead
and I have just gotten the call
and I stand here
and look at humanity
unaware
passing by
the weak February sun
making glare
and trouble.

She isn't dead. No call came.
I did not get out
or wade in
or step back
and watch
from a transformed place.
I am in this too. None of us
are mindless and
none of us
are the crush of
humanity and
it takes
much less than
death
real
or imagined
to know it.

Touch the bark
of the crabapple tree.

We all
know exactly
what it feels like.