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Locked Out
By: Amy Aumick 2004
Sitting on a curb
On the Trail
Listening to the buzz
Of traffic as it rolls by.
Waiting for the locksmith
To open up my car.
Wearing daisy dukes
And some knee high boots.
Hoping that the
Working Ladies
Switching, bewitching
Don't confuse me for one of them.
Early, the sun just risen
Chill of Florida mossy mornings
Not yet humid or
100 degrees
Sizzling, melting me.
A busted CD glints rainbows
Against my pen.
A couple sits aside waiting
For something cool to happen.
She reading the news,
Black newsprint
Convoluding her fingertips
With images of War
And dead babies in Iraq.
He, sipping coffee, yawning,
Looks over to her.
Their lips moving
In cadence to the
Rumbly sounds of work trucks.
Tires spinning
Red ants moving, streaming
Along the concrete.
I am sitting in their path
Watching side to side
As I write.
Hoping they don't bite
As they wind their way
Around stubby cigarette butts
And my coffee cup.
Lifting my behind
Like some giant drawbridge
To let them pass by.
Flicking one away
Just for fun.
Mortally wounding a small one
Just because I can.
The lady in waiting,
Now bored with human tragedy,
Turns to the comics
To read commentary
By the late Charles Schultz,
Doonesbury, Garfield and
Family Circle.
She smiles, though not at me.
I am invisible here,
In dark glasses
Sipping, scratching, looking
Like some junkie with
Wild curls strung out around
My face.
Morning, I am mourning
A lost life
Stuck in the ignition
Like my lost set of keys.
But the bay doors open and
A New Day dawns.
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