Kind Phobias

On the edge of the road. Narrow footsteps lead us away from and take us back home. Carrying the sun on our backs. Calculating the distance between ourselves and the cars speeding passed. Treatments in every face. Love. Sex. Friendship. Drugs of a different flavor. Drugs still the same.

On our way there. Empty pockets bleed into the slow footsteps of dreams I'd had the night before. Cardboard cutouts of happiness looming larger than the window I'd set aside for them. The grass. The weeds. Breaking under our step. In a calm requiem. A marching band stomping off into Auschwitz. Where rage is the the lamb to our lion.

On our way back. Pockets laden with cellphones. Eyes flat enough to match the landscape. The world full of pockets that are full of nothing. Stale matches that won't flame. Little footprints in the dirt. Small steps in big shoes. All of us pretending the microscope isn't lying.