“CARS STOPPED ON A SEATTLE HILLSIDE”

Cars stopped on a Seattle hillside
lined up like dominoes;
spaced out like dog dung
drying on a San Diego patio.
The drivers sit in arabesque,
one hand on the wheel,
one foot on point,
toes extended, reaching
down the body and up the hill.
Everything depends upon
ligaments, nerves, and brake fluid
not to fail us; not to fail the order of
the world. Stopped on a hillside,
there is nowhere to go, so let go
and roll back
into the beautiful light
you came from, then.
The sun shines on the valley
and on the hilltop.
The hillside is always dark.
The cars are lined up,
waiting for the change,
but nothing turns green
in the dark shade of cosmos.
You've gotta climb or you've gotta fall, baby.
You've gotta get some tip of yourself sunlit.
You've gotta go.
You've gotta go
for all the ones
who never left,
who never learned
what it's like to leave
with all your ducks in a row.
To let go and go
without looking back
as all the dominoes fall in the sun;
to lay over their own shadows,
nothing beautiful left to admire? No.
Oh yes,
sitting behind that bus
on a hillside in Seattle,
in that moment between
the driver moving her foot
between the brake and the gas.
As a hundred bodies lurch back.
What if? What if? What then?
If that foot never
gets back on the brake or the gas?
You've gotta go.
You've gotta go.
You've gotta let go to know
where you're going next.
Up or down,
the sun waits to shine on you.
Release and re-engage, baby.
There's no other way
to get off this hill.

narrative poem written on 04-10-2017 by: on mattkane.com
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CARS STOPPED ON A SEATTLE HILLSIDE | poem by Matt Kane Fine Art

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