fog on my windshield, remnants of last night as I drive across slushy roads, hurrying—all of us hurrying—to erase the days before or render them meaningless, rushing past boutiques with faded for sale signs, past the dollar store selling stale bread, past the fountain where we tossed gummies coins, wishing for success or love, trying to beat the next traffic light, trying to prove our bodies deserve space in this endless cycle of work & paying bills & trying to make things better but not knowing what better means, missing the sounds of spring trying to break through harsh winter

                       missing our reason for being
                                   alive

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