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By John Jeffrey
Rolling into the driveway, I slow the car
to a standstill in front of the garage door
when--even though I've stopped--the motion
detector clicks and light spills like milk over the car.
I shut off the wipers, the headlights, the air-
conditioning, the fans, the radio, the cell phone,
and then the engine. With the engine dies
the muffler's angry mutterings. Another hole.
After a few minutes of stillness, the light above
the garage ticks off. It's dark now, and silent
but for the soothing soft-shoe on the roof; even falling
from such height the rain has a gentleness.
Should I, too heavy for a cloud, be dropped
from the sky I would make a more demanding rain:
Blood-vivid, intense as a scream, I would destroy
whatever came between me and the destiny of that fall.
But the rain gives to me a sense of sequestration,
one hundred and seven cubic feet of untouched interior.
I won't go into the house yet, not yet to the television,
the phones, the answering machine, the computer--
networked to the office like a vein--the ominous
tick-ticking behind the refrigerator, the blown hall light,
the broken washing machine, the wasted mattress,
and the mildew-rotting basement, probably flooding
as I study rainwater meandering down the windshield,
now left, now right, now pausing to wait for another
then together continuing. Some, mid-flow, just stop.
Others never begin. I watch the water. I am learning.
I am a dangerous man.
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Document last modified on: 09/25/2005