Like variegated litter strewn on the side of a highway,
tossed from the window of a moving car,
my thoughts lie sprinkled like chaff
over a forgotten region in an unfamiliar state.

I feel buried like a belt beneath a drooping belly.
In the photo-finish world where valid characters
swoosh through the air, I am suspended in
a Jell-O mold, watching like a spy.

The reflection in any shiny brass doorknob
distorts all extended, reaching hands.
Like a face pressed against glass,
none escape the mockery.

Still, I stand as another uncalled witness
whose lips are moving, bearing testimony,
uttering my private mantra into the din
while waiting for my train without a watch.

Gayla Chaney's work has been published in Louisiana Literature, Potomac Review, Oklahoma Review, Rio Grande Review, Concho River
Review, Windhover, Natural Bridge, and other literary magazines.  She lives and writes in central  Texas.


Copyright 2009