As I drive down the 15, half past midnight,
the abrasive glow of the halogen lights
of the asshole behind me flashes into my eyes
and makes me wish the light could spirit me away.

All at once, I wish the halogen lights could be
the fire beneath a street vendor’s wok,
sending a slosh of lo mein afloat and landing it
onto a saran-wrapped steel bowl.

Or maybe the light could be
the revolving lantern atop the Eiffel Tower,
splashing distant waves of illumination
through the port-window of my rented summer-home.

I’d even prefer the light to be casting
the reflection of my naked body,
projecting it languidly on the surface
of a still section of the river Jordan

The best light, I think, would have to be
the moonlight hitting my lover’s face
as we lie in bed together, hoping
for a new life in some exotic place like Fiji.

Now as I look back into the rear view mirror,
seeing only the artificiality of the halogen lights,
I wonder if a car crash would send me into the afterlife
where a new light might reveal itself.

But –
if, as I’m ascending towards the “pearly gates,”
the doors open up, only to reveal the garish glow of halogen lights,
I think I’d politely, of course, have to pass on an invitation inside.

Jack Foster is a writer from Southern California. His works can be found in Kudzu Review, Heavy Hands Ink, and The Camel Saloon. When he is not drinking beer, writing, or going to school, he serves as the Editorial Manager of A Few Lines Magazine.

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