Returning to work after Memorial Day, a man jumps in front of my car accelerating 40 miles an hour onto the Clark Memorial Bridge. Some nameless folk singer is crooning through the staticy amazon drop shipped auxiliary cord to keep me awake. It is 7:54 am and this man is waving his hands in the air like a human advertisement as rain falls like silk sheets—or Egyptian cotton, overpriced on a wedding registry—and behind me another man reaches his hand out in front of the Omni hotel to grab a bundle of purple weeds in the median and hand them to his passenger. Downtown Louisville is alight with life begging to be snuffed out, and across the bridge rests a murder of crows—one of those phrases you say to make yourself seem smarter in the eyes of people who already hate your guts—huddling over the body of a doe hit by a driver after a night of drunken summer celebration, ready to be removed in the morning, just driven past then pressed away from my memory as the folk singer and I both dream of mountaintops and jumping like rabbits through the brush and onto the road not taken. I get to work and contemplate more caffeine at 8:42 in the morning and wonder why we allow so much of our lives to be spent in glass cages and mugs and microplastics. At home after a long day of pretending to work I beg the poem to come out again like an animal from under the bed, growling at my outstretched hand. I grab it by the scruff just to hold it once again and call myself a poet with a day job.