I keep writing these poems to draw attention. So desperate to be seen. Maybe if I paid more attention to myself I wouldn’t have to write so loud. I’m making a scene, so many verses about cachectic trees with cracked bones, the wind searching for marrow. Oh well, there’s nothing there. I’ve looked. I’ve shattered all the mirrors. I keep setting cacophonous alarms but I don’t wake up. In a certain dream I never get home. I keep pulling over and scribbling down lines on half sheets of paper. The hospital is always in my rear view mirror. Feeling needed is a way to stay alive. I don’t want to miss my exit. Last rest area for a million miles. I have plenty of gas. I’m laying on the horn and lighting flares. But I don’t want any help. I leave the engine idling. I’ll figure this out. One more stanza without a single damn rhyme. The wind is picking up. That might be the growl of distant thunder. Or a gathering pack of wolves. I’ll have to shout. Maybe just drive. I'm running out of time. When I arrive I slam the door so someone will hear. I recognize the place by the sound of my own voice.