As ivy slithers across brick,
so do we cling to the patterns
we establish with our lives.
Then, strangeness interjects.
An anomaly. It does not belong
to the days we have cultivated.
A dead traffic light swaying above
you, color emptied from its body.
From the back of a blue pick-up truck,
an airbrushed skeleton extending
a finger, orange and yellow flames
tumbling out as it points.
The strange. The bus, full of people,
parked on the side of the street,
no driver. A person greeting you
by the wrong name, the password
that will not grant you access,
not even on the fourth or fifth attempt.
The strange tugs on our sleeves,
stretches an ankle beneath our step
to make us stumble. That is odd,
we think, about these reminders of
how impossible routine is once
we decide to look at it.
Would you look at that, we think,
when interrupted by the strange.
Has that always been there.