At the Corner of the Year

The day is trapped in amber, a reflection
of traffic lights, half-changed from green to red.
The line of cars down at the intersection
exhausting clouds of steam, won't move ahead
like pages on a calendar, unflipped,
with pictures that we're tired of. Time's a gate
with frozen hinge, a clock whose gears are stripped
and will not mesh, a stoplight stuck on WAIT.

We can't get traction on the cindered slush
that fills the street. No torsion-bar suspension
can work against this time that's held in tension,
the last few days in old December's clutch.
Transmission slips, the engine's out of gear
and idling at the corner of the year.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside