Three Stoplights Her hands hold the telephone, the glass of the booth is all that separates her

from chaos night and cars chasing cars across the reflectors of amber, endless amber, parading...oh, nowhere...cursing on the run. She sinks, weak-legged, to the bottom of the booth, sobbing, tearing teardamp tee shirt, mortal lonely and the nothing terror from mom to the vanished papa. Has fucked thousands, still virgin, was never virgin. How can this be? Loveless one in the stink of loveless comings. The question is eternal, check your roadside map. Waits until predawn chill cramps her, whole body cramping, and she's bleeding into cotton, red on white, holy body witness to the posture of the beaten. Crawls to her auto, cheek against cold chrome, icy bumper, aching in her tooth; where woman lips touch iron, blood stuck to rust. Waits for the sun, the stranger, the...oh never mind. Bare knees in gravel and the roadside dirt. Too many keys and she can't part with the old ones. Cars pass the fallen into dayglow, into white noise. And still, as always, the silence is complete, the freezing marketplace, the frozen street. dan essman september 1993