With Hands on the Wheel

She goes on driving, does not carry a gun. She has no gun, never will. Do not judge the harmony of rain on the windshield.

She waits, making a stop. Clouds; veins like the depth of the sea. One time you heard gunshots, now fallen in the red shadow of a traffic light.

You hid almost all the way under the steering wheel, rain tapping on your window, going down like sobbing streams, tears, tears, tears.

You never wanted to see or be complicit in the death of others. You hid almost all the way under the steering wheel. Drops of rain on your window, going down

when you sigh, like streams of sobbing and sweet waters that irrigate the street before rusting away. You never wanted to see or be complicit in the fate of this war

The streets flooded and cars were stranded. The bitterness of hope renounced the street in a profusion of soft wind.