Occasionally, The Bird on Fire is gifted with work from our PVS alumni. This famous alumnus (initials J.D.), who writes under the pseudonym “Ajax,” sends us the following poem on the “high occupancy vehicle” usually found in the carpool lane on the freeway. In this lane, however, you’ll find talk of love. He says of the poem, “This is a piece about finding love when love isn’t ready for you. Whatever that means to you, that’s your truth. Read this as if it was yours.” 

By Ajax

it was the drive that had me.
I never really minded it; the red upon red;
the blasting of harmony in my ears drowned out the monotony of the wheels on the 405 asphalt.
the driving.
the driving to you.
I would pull into your driveway, my horse drawn carriage hitched as I fell into
you.
Your smile.
Your hands.
You.
As laughter filled the finite space of time and mass that was us,
I knew that I didn’t want to leave. I couldn’t.
But my horse drawn carriage reared, and
Reality told me it was time to go.
I would drive through the twilight, away.
Away from you.
And that red upon red would grace me again.
I peer over to the express checkout. The HOV’s.
And the music no longer drowns out the monotony.
I peer, and the HOV’s peer right back.
High Occupancy.
Occupancy.
Occupancy.
I remember a time; a time of express checkout.
A time of flying over the red upon red, the music not simply drowning out, but flowing with the beat of my wings.
Of our wings.
A time where I can look over and all there was, was you.
And your smile.
And your hands.
And You.
A time before the shift.
Before the silence.
Before the “you” just simply left.
Left me.
And my carriage.
And my harmony.
And me.
All alone, on the asphalt again. Chipping away at the “once-was.”
As I sit, and ponder on why my occupancy was not enough for you, I peer again at the HOV’s.
My wings are clipped.
I cannot fly like I used to.
You grounded me and then you grounded me.
You.
You.
You.

(Jackson Dean, Class of ’19)