On the longest day
I mostly paid no attention,
observed no ritual,
made no marks.
I did not pause, reflect or
wonder at the lingering light.
I didn’t mind.

Instead, I drank coffee,
spoke broken Spanish in the morning,
worked my job, walked
my dog in wide circles.
I drove kids to places—
a friend’s in the next town,
visit to the urgent care center,
to the gutted shopping mall in the suburbs.
I didn’t mind.

The gray light was always there,
laid down, folding around
every curve in the highway,
holding the hills together,
my fingers locked on the wheel,
until the longest day passed to black
like India ink bleeds out
across this solitary plane.