Yard Sale of Thoughts

Oh, to be your highway,
stretching and connecting you.

I’d memorize your signs,
plan the stops, open my lanes,
sleep to the rhythm
of rush hour days.

I’m certain we’d be driving somewhere–
the main artery of life.

How quickly I see myself
in terms of trails,
dirty and uneven,
pocketed with pebbles,
a path traveled once,
but never looked back on.

Unmarked and unchanged,
an outlying connection
that fades into undergrowth,
branching without notice.

Only today, I realized I was more
the unexpected detour,
sighs of an irritated traveler
seep from your grumphs
as you dump out your waste.
Recycling a pity pattern into me
behind sealed eyes.

Startling myself,
shameful as the faint scars
of an addict,
you roll down your sleeves,
I finally see:
I am not a headlight.
I barely raised pattern
on your flesh.