How are you?

I wouldn't say I'm unhappy.

On some sunset Chicago's glass
caught fire and most days drag between
highlights: I see him often,
he makes me laugh,

I am no Sylvia Plath.
My ego won't reflect from
every pale face,

but I am tired of living
in a reel,

when we missed the exit I wish
he'd kept driving,
at least until
I couldn't recognize
the street names.