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To Leslie Maryann Neal's previous piece

Walking to the Car

A cloud, a blue-white
scoop like ice cream
noticing the cold,
hovers between buildings
like a Magritte dream.
Shadows move from window
to tinted window,
a Rorschach test of sliding ink.
I believe I am going insane.
The inkblot shadow looks
one moment like a giraffe
holding a hand grenade,
the next like a bowl of granola.

Loneliness presses bruises
into my skin with its weight,
carves every letter
of its name with surgical
precision into my eyes.
I get into the car.

On the 405,
I pass one of those lit signs
that forecast traffic.
It says,
THIS IS A TEST
THIS IS A TEST
THIS IS A TEST.

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