#9

The gas station at three am, the flickering
light above a metal mirror sends
morse code to get out.

The toilet seat with initials
carved with a blade, could be a message,
or could be an alien anagram
sent to give instructions for what’s next.

Leaving the room, the morning sun
peels the layers of halogen green
off your skin, and there’s a guy
in a wheelchair in the middle of rush hour
traffic, steering left off Cahuenga.

He ignores the screaming suits and ties,
reflected black SUVs with disembodied
middle fingers like ghost-held candelabras--
he’s looking for you. This is not coincidence.

There’s a playing card in
the spokes of his right wheel to give you,
and it has a message.