Intersections

Snow whispers against the city’s 

bellow, white moths fluttering against 

a black velvet sky. They vanish 

on the hood, like dreams on a fevered 

pillow. The wipers, old men with stiff backs, 

groan a tune the radio ignores.  

A red smear: the stoplight exhales. 

How long have I slumped here, thumbs 

twiddling, watching that crimson eye 

blink? Roads I never took, smoke curling

in a dead hearth. The rearview mirror, 

a tarnished dime-store portrait. A face, 

almost mine, peering back. Does anything 

stay put long enough to be nailed down, 

a butterfly under glass? The engine mutters

to itself. The snow keeps its secrets. 

And that red eye, still winking, still beckoning.

Like a cheap lure on a frozen corner.

Sam Aureli is a design and construction professional from Italy, living in Boston, MA. He turned to poetry later in his journey, seeking refuge from the chaos of daily life. Sam looks forward to the weekend, watching birds feed in the backyard, finding inspiration in the quiet moments. His work has been accepted in Atlanta Review, Amethyst Review, Loft Books, Coverstory Books, Rough Diamond Poetry, and Prosetrics The Magazine.