Fancy meeting you in the latest Magpie Tale
Lo, that we cross together at certain points —
a dangerous road we fear charting alone and
hope there may be a hand, a stranger’s hand might
be preferred, to help us cross.
But we ultimately do it ourselves, even if we are
dragged across to the other side.
The ribbon of roads are ever out there, freeways and foot paths,
each a passing place where we are most likely to chart a course
with strangers with whom we do not interact unless we
collide or we honk or swerve and curse at them for not
sharing the path the way we think is appropriate.
And then that path is left behind, witnessed only by
the little ticky tacky hillside homes that peer down on
this asphalt amphitheater of daily little dramas, crashes, sirens,
gurneys, and mops to clear up the blood. And then a
new stage set and ballet will replace it for the next melodrama
to fill the void. But mostly it is banal, re-assuring rhythms
of commutes and shopping journeys. A river of souls in
little metal boxes wheeled off to somewhere, whisking
away the quiet with an eternal buzz and rubber fizz.