I can feel my nerves separating
envision them, twisted little sinews
like the ones they had in glass cases
clutching mementos; words, books, pages
things they would have taken to the grave.

Hands with tiny threads
blue, red and purple
joined as if by a sewer's needle
craftily wound and woven'
snapped, sharply, without a second's notice.

I never touched the glass
others did, desperate for the companionship
of plasticated death'not me!
I left, paid my dues and ran away
jumped behind the wheel and here I am.

I can feel my nerves splitting
as I become one with the continuous
woven thread of afternoon traffic
many colors; blue, purple, red
taken to the pavement, a hot summer's
metallic painting.

I can hear the guard in the museum saying
that I shouldn't be nervous
I shouldn't be afraid
but I cannot reject the feelings of dread
being near these woven threads, about to burst.

I'm revving the engine, God only knows
I never wanted to go this fast
and my knuckles are white on the steering wheel
I can feel my nerves breaking, separating, snapping
as though the guard reached through the glass
and broke the perfect, glossy, plasticated hand.

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