From the overpass, freeway cars blur
into night. Their taillights are a stream
of red specks racing east to morning,
like a flash of cigarette sparks caught
by a gust, reminding me of the acrid
lungful you can’t believe feels so good.
Four years and I crave one now; the taste,
the bloodstream rush, a bolt of courage,
with the empty cat cage, still seeing
his fear-filled eyes, the catch at the end
of each fought-for breath. All I can inhale
is helplessness; one of the immutables.