Foot late to brake.
Rubber laps the line.
Fingers unclench.
Those Things We Do
Do we matter if no one cares for, or about, those things we do?
If not, are we not already dead?
Riveted
It catches the wind and for all its flapping cannot move. I watch it silently. From a distance. From here it is unidentifiable: its only feature a pair of metronomic wings. Long seconds pass and we...