When These Clouds Roll In.

When these clouds roll in,
Atlanta is only 15 stories tall
sixteen at the most.
And phosphorescent signs
shout at snail-paced commuters
irate within seconds, running out
of blissful silent solitude:
their only quiet moments.

In this overcrowded bus
I stand next to the driver
in a commonplace cockpit
and see the streets firsthand
riding shotgun on the shoulders
and from this perch I see
an inching forward, a subtle shift
within my own matter

I am splitting infinitives:
I am dichotomized distance
between the "is" and the "ought."
I am ever floating between the
shores. yet somehow,
held.
tightly in place by a voice

a voice that stays steady,
with a wide array of facial
expressions along. It is not
changing. yet it is somehow
changing me.