Where are you going, you flashing wagon,
in such a whiz-bang hurry through the stops and gos?
Are you going to a campfire, with the toasty stench
of a kid old enough to play with matches and young enough
not to know that the flames aren't friendly?
Are you going to that barricaded intersection where the cars
met in a lovingly devastating embrace, one driver straight from the bar,
one driver straight from the PTA meeting, her misery echoing off of the broken car seat?
Are you going to the river to visit that underwater parking spot
and wave to the children waiting for their mom
to get back from the store and drive them home?
Are you going to the locked door of a distraught room,
where puppy love and an unlocked gun cabinet combined to
form the mural of an Act V ending on the wall?

Or are you going home, to hug your kids,
and think about everything but work?

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