The Catholic Driveways
The driveways are silent. The asphalt
and sky are open roads above and below “god,”
oak leaves, trash, empty bushes, and ibuprofen
A half-full glass of water stands before the books
fingers on the blackened keyboard, a slim blue
light. Green outlines for battery plug antenna
She does things in threes. Invitations, nervous
banners in the night flash on and off; brief
gesture towards the head. A beam of light
She’d like to think, illuminates the person at the
desk, from the shoulders down, no face. An eagle
pencil, Patch swag, Safeway receipts, cables.
“Thus, to go forward” is to watch the objects go
past you. The SUVs, the driveways, the books,
unfound Easter eggs, and cellophane grass.