Traffic pulses. Fumes leak from passing cars. The voice of a monster truck growls with impatience. Cement-colored clouds drift about like lost sheep on an azure plain. I am curbside, observing.
Two hours in and gopher holes fill my brain, the thoughts manifesting and then disappearing like rabbits into brush. Two female joggers pass, their push-up lycra struggling to maintain a hold. A man approaches them, the way a dog would approach another dog at a park. Offensiveness is in the eye of the beholder, insensitivity in the heart of the accused. At a stoplight, an old man stares at me from inside his Chinese-built hybrid. His face is like cracked mud or an old oil painting. Some of us think great lines come from the tongue, but he would disagree.
A dandelion of thought drifts through my head, and sticks, like a first throw at masturbation, where you just know there will be a hell of a lot more over the course of the season. It is an oboe amongst violins, poignant, resonant, defining. Suburbia is hours of boredom mitigated by moments of terror. Lives spin like the wheels I see before me, desperately hoping to avoid the potholes and surface cracks on their way home to un-loveable wives and deteriorating husbands.
In the sky, the sheep are blackening. The suggestion of something thrown away fills the air. A car horn bleats. Someone raises a middle finger. Sleep beckons.