Lincoln Zig-Zags Poem by Jack Otterberg

the ambulance howls and honks
its red voice down 17th,
past Knoll's polished brick
and Lamar's glowing open sign
to a stout hospital
on an ivy-crusted road.
the apartments there sting the night-clouds
with balding black rooftops
that press their images
into the fretting corners of my mind.

somewhere someone speaks to God
of some omnipotent business
having to do with the shadows that stalk me
tonight— they
zig-zag crosswalks and drift
through my fogged breath:
maybe, to a stasis much clearer than the
body.

I've loved the wilting romances
of these gray avenues,
who laid their slow cement arms
over the land, as if to cry
for a lover never met.
and the naked maples bow
to a God whose regret
for his creation
was that He loved it too much.

what does it mean to love
invisibly? I don't know— it must come naturally.
as those outside
may succumb naturally
to lighting their voices ablaze
while I stay quiet,
waiting for my prayers to love me back.