Fronts

Despite my westerly wind,
I have unwillingly been carried east.

East where everything is and must
be defined, refined, and redefined.

East where we sleep on top
of the sheets of unloving beds.

East where walking is risky
and driving is jeopardy.

Despite my efforts to avoid assimilation,
I, too, scream mindlessly at eternal traffic.

I, regrettably, am in a fruitless rush
when there are hours or days to spare.

My chimney breathes harsh, smothering air
into the filth-clouded sky, mocking environmentalists.

I think of the clear blue west,
open-ended and unexpected like cancer.

I wish my westerly wind would blow
all these north-easterlies to Nevada.

I’d show them that a minute is trivial
and crush my own ticking watch.