by Peg Quinn
 |
| AI-generated at Night Café |
Traffic so heavy I sit, idle, on a freeway overpass
watching four lanes stalled below me.
I listen to the radio.
Then notice someone, bent over,
head pressed against a fence.
Maybe a hood, or corner of a blanket
covering their face, draping down their back
leg’s sunbaked, bare feet.
I wait for them to shift their weight
rise up, blink into the day.
They stay locked in place.
I worry.
No one bends, frozen, immobile
at a freeway exit unless in serious trouble
—or lost in prayer—
I shouldn’t make assumptions,
so grab my phone as my lane rolls forward.
The Sheriffs Department will send someone over,
though I’m haunted by this random gathering,
thoughts intent on work,
appointments, deadlines, lovers,
merely glancing as we pass one of us,
a fellow traveler, struggling in silence.
Bent.
Head pressed against a fence.
Peg Quinn’s poetry and non-fiction have been published in numerous journals and anthologies and four times nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her debut poetry collection Mother Lode was published by Gunpowder Press in 2021.
