& the road looks so distant, like this is all a funhouse mirror, & I barely have any control, or maybe I have only the illusion of control, or maybe not even that. What does it mean to see the future distorted in such a way that it is barely recognizable as the future. It’s Easter & the president posted the word fuckin’ on the internet, apostrophe & all. My son woke up at 4 a.m. & only went back to sleep when we bribed him with the idea of going to the zoo, where he’ll tell the giraffes all his secrets. I want to make sense of everything—the concept of a day beginning & ending in a way that is ordered, if not orderly—but that’s not how it goes. I was driving around, in the front seat, listening to some Syd Barrett, & I glanced into the rearview mirror, which reflected the little mirror I use to check on my son, & the way the mirrors bounced off each other—it let me pretend, for a moment, I was inside that dream again, where I’m driving from the backseat, where the road looks so distant, like this is all.
Justin Carter’s work has appeared in Bruiser Magazine, HAD, and BULL. He is the author of the poetry collection Brazos. He serves as the editor at Some Words.