(10)
Windshield Wipers
Maybe I am
a broken poet
because I
am not inspired by windshield wipers
the pleasure of their gentle swish
evokes no deeper metaphors
rain is brushed aside
but not like I am brushed aside
or problems are brushed aside
or distractions
I do not trace the path of the rains
from condensation back into evaporation
off of lakes and sweating joggers
I do not write poems to the thump-screech heartbeat
or ponder the plight of drivers
who grow stiff in the precipitation
I only think of getting out
not dancing, or frolicking
just walking
watching dark spots on my shoes
head growing heavier with each drop
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