An empty mop bucket,
tucked in the corner
The scent of
Bleach cut with water.
The concoction left a sticky residue
Over the surfaces it was cleaned with.
My shoes suctioned to the adhesive,
With other travelers,
Inside the truck-stop.
I surveyed the pipes
Stationed above the urinal.
Green slime was caked
Underneath a lug nut
Holding the plumbing in place.
The pipes shook
And the green slime
Flaked off like confetti,
Sprinkled itself inside
The toilet’s basin.
I stepped away,
It washed away.
Automatic water streams
Flushed out from the faucet
And saturated my fingers.
In my head
I sang row, row, row your boat
With the deluge,
pulling my fingers away
after imagining the last note.
How long a person’s hands
Should remain inside the stream
For them to be clean.
I read it off a
Step by step guide
About proper handwashing,
Posted in a hospital’s bathroom.
I pivoted my eyeline,
Nestled beside a neighboring faucet
Was a stack of cards. I grabbed one.
White letters were back-dropped
Against solid purple.
I know the plans I have for you.
On the otherside was a website.
Outside a pickup approached
The entrance to the truckstop. Its headlights
Blinded me. From their direction
A voice shouted something
Incomprehensible. I squinted through
The gleaming and asked for clarification.
An engine roared and I blinked.
Artist is present.
Illusion conjecture, typified performance
(here we go)
A fly infiltrated our car.
Its flight pattern was built like conversation.
A circuitous direction, mimed in the Here and Now.
We ignored the fly and decided on a destination.
Trees sashayed with the window glass.
The fly became jealous of their intimacy,
Staking qualm in being unable
To break out and greet the window’s
The insect landed on her cheek
She swiped at it with her fingers.
A fly observes human movement
As if it were melting wax.
Before I finished blinking the insect
left her skin and hovered before the dashboard.
“That’s interesting.” I said.
“What?” She asked.
“Touch…well….the sensation of it. As we experience it, it’s in the past.”
“What do you mean?” She asked.
We stopped at a red light.
I leaned over the center console, kissed her cheek.
The light turned green and I advanced our car.
“As much as that kiss felt in the moment and it was…how you experienced it
Was delayed by hairs of a second. Your brain takes a moment to decipher reality,
What you’re experiencing.”
“You mean time is an illusion?”
“No. We’re still living within the arrow of time…our sensations are confined by its boundaries.
Really, though, if it were to be measured, I guess it’s your brain’s interpretation of time, like rewinding a movie at split seconds intervals and making sense of it by…like…”
She said nothing but reached out her hand, stayed it along my knuckles. Her grip was warm, soft and gentle.