I look out my window and observe the small space it opens 

to, an area where within a minute a person (or anything that moves) can enter and 

escape from view to parts probably known but out of my 

eyes’ reach. Here, too, I see cars and think that even I,

while sitting and examining, am likely to move, where the 

car just sits in its space, acts as a receptor of bird poop

and pollen and dust, until a human wants to enter it and 

escape to parts perhaps not known–to a greater geographic

area known as North America.

I feel like, given the surface area of the continent, these 

words mean very little, for what I see as a car another 

sees as a car and so forth, but as a man who tries to 

convey through poetry, I believe in the niche 

who revels at such a simple story of the cars

and passing people and birds and other such 


outside this minute window. 


One thought on “Straightfoward

  1. doesitevenmatter3

    I like this poem a lot!
    Sometimes I like being the one moving and going and traveling and…well, other times I’m so content to be sitting inside looking out the window, watching.


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