Strangers On Some Back Road

We've all brushed up against the anesthetic drooping of winter
with a sudden beastly surprise of some fierce blizzard,
putting our hearts atilt,
saturated with hope for a robin-mild January;
forgiven for our venial offenses.

We all blink back the tears of another disappointed wounding,
plumb with the rusty truth it won't be the last lie.

You'll break that axle again
on some back road of a dream,
lost and forgetting the way.

Strangers are everywhere.
Strangers will rob you blind.
Strangers knock casually on the window
hoping you'll open the door
long enough to copy the keys
and smile as they walk away with everything.