The taxi I was riding in
almost crashed into the back
of a red Chevy. I was day-
dreaming when the driver
reached back to keep me
from hitting the seat.
If his eyes could have
saved me—urgent,
concerned—they would
have saved me. I wasn’t
scared and told him I was
fine, that he was doing
a good job, You’re doing
a good job, but I’ve been
thinking all night about my
last thoughts had I died:
1. My friend hates Ashbery’s poems and another friend said: Do you get what he’s doing?
She said: I get it, but I don’t want it.
2. Poetry is such a small dream.
3. I’d rather die alone than live my life dead in a relationship.
4. Should I walk the dog or let her play in the backyard?
I thought all those things,
but I’m not sure exactly
what I was thinking when he
skidded close to the truck.
Maybe I was thinking
of the picnic table, outside
the church on the left, covered
with a yellow plastic tablecloth
and how someone will always try
to make something ugly look nice.
They’ll say: See that yellow tablecloth?
Isn’t it nice?