Reading The Dash

Street lamps yellowed my walk,
and the sirens of the law and medicine
remind me that I think God doesn't have time for me.
I'm awake still, and it's far past time for me to dream.
I'm trying to press forward on a dilemna that has no answer it seems.

I'm warming myself by an orange fire tonight, and as the planes fly overhead,
blinking red lights and pointing steady headlights,
I think these flights are something I want that pass over me as quickly, as fat, and as loudly.
I just can't have them right now, with this body, not with my stifled head;
I'm listening to sirens of law and medicine tell me God's so busy right now.

God's so busy, but blink anyway, He says, as if to reassure me that
I can ask or not, either way, it ends.