On being an idealistic cynic

[varadia]

. . . or just another one of those fairy tales

Pot-hole

It carves out the road
shallow
rough edged
the size of a pie tin
or two hands held
in the shape
of a butterfly
just the right size
to catch a tire
and send the contents of the back seat
an inch or two in the air
neither flying
nor falling
not even both
instead the feeling that comes
when rules might be broken
in that quiet waiting
between winter and spring.