liberal arts studio.montserrat
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by Jason Brady

The frigid wind
felt through window glass
adheres my head against
the clear, thin pane.
Each connecting concrete slab
bounces me up like grandpa's knee.
With the droll noise from rubber friction
mixing with the carbon monoxide
lullabies. My eyes give in
to the restless stretch
of white-striped blackness
ahead and behind.
Our driver's pale hands
are ignored by my mother.
For now we'll just stare in the vast
without wonder.
Instead our faith rests
in the street lights' resplendence,
whose golden oars pull us
with kind windshield kisses.
Each tire rotation is proof
Of time passing,
And the clocks don't seem
To work with the scenery.
Exit signs play with
Imaginary town names.
I know our destination
is somewhere between them.




September '04