fellow travelers

she was sitting, impotent
in her car, when it struck her –
Sisyphus was probably an
extreme commuter, too.

in all likelihood, he lived around
the corner from her
and drove a slightly battered
Dodge Caravan

with political stickers jammed
next to peeling sports decals and
a cutesy stick figure rendering of
his nuclear family unit:

wife Merope, sons Glaucus,
Ornytion, Almus and Thersander
– and a wobbly circle representing
the family’s pet boulder

no doubt, he traveled the
same curvy parkways she
traversed, the ones that flooded
from slight rains and

seemed only to veer
directly into the path of
bright sunshine at all times
of the year – a preternatural stonehenge.

he was surely the man
weaving across every
lane but never moving ahead
as she crawled forward,

the miles clicking
slowly down
but the minutes
piling up:

the GPS not really
taking either of them
any closer to
their final destination

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