Marco Melfi

I scan, in a windowless room
walled with high def TVs,
the trucking and travel of this city’s
major arteries. It’s later than late night.
Past last call when I mime my thermos mug
a cin cin to fellow insomniacs—
doctors, DJs and armoured car guards—
shifting these wee morning hours.

I’m tuned to channels with low volumes
of vehicles. A rerun of autos advancing
as slow motion graphics. The Henday,
Whitemud, One-Eleventh Ave syndicated.
Uneventful seen-it again as the best
viewing, believing I’ll get better at plot
and the motives driving a lane darter
or lullers at another mini mart.

I claim to be an augur that sees them
happen—crashes trending streams—ahead of impact.
But I failed to forecast us. Our collision
made a Rom-Com couple of you and me
on an evening of snowy spring roads
we walked bikes home. I also missed
the fog and alerts that blurred before
our series ended early years later.

I have a deity’s screen to the streets
minus any influence. A Delphi flunky
I only phone accidents like any bystander.
A proctor, I can’t prevent, rewind or skip
scenes, I just tally and tarry even at that.
I dodge duty and sometimes shut eyes,
in this starless bunker, wishing to chart remote
unrecorded roads you might be cycling.

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Marco Melfi writes his poetry in Edmonton and is sometimes on Twitter.