Going to Work

The time has changed, and once again

I drive into the sun on my way to work.

Sometimes I take the interstate, sometimes the other highway,

but there’s no escaping airport traffic; it’s just a hedged bet

on which road will have fewer idiots in my way.

There’s a low-slung motel on the corner where I turn off the highway,

advertising weekly and extended stays, though everyone can tell,

just by looking, that they rent rooms by the hour. Every single time

I pass it, I hear E.E. Cummings inside my head: “wanta spend six dollars kid

2 for the room and four for the girl,” and then I’m turning right

on Golf Acres Drive, approaching Airport Center Parkway,

hanging a left to drive the Bradford Pear-lined street of random

businesses, mainly medical this or that.

* * * * *

I pull into the parking lot, finishing my cigarette in the car,

listening to the end of the song playing

before grabbing my bag and my coffee

and trudging to the building and clomping

down the hall to my classroom. If Marie is on campus,

she comes by, perhaps suggesting lunch together,

or maybe just to tell another chapter in

the idiot chronicles (they never learn).

She and I both could justify legally changing our names

to Cassandra, for all the credence granted

by smaller minds with larger egos.

I eat my breakfast after she floats back to her own room

and wait for my students.