Despite my westerly wind,

I have unwillingly been carried east.

East where everything is and must

be defined, refined, and redefined.

East where we sleep on top

of the sheets of unloving beds.

East where walking is risky

and driving is jeopardy.

Despite my efforts to avoid assimilation,

I, too, scream mindlessly at eternal traffic.

I, regrettably, am in a fruitless rush

when there are hours or days to spare.

My chimney breathes harsh, smothering air

into the filth-clouded sky, mocking environmentalists.

I think of the clear blue west,

open-ended and unexpected like cancer.

I wish my westerly wind would blow

all these northeasterlies to Nevada.

I’d show them that a minute is trivial

and crush my own ticking watch.