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.