The Glimmer

On my drive to work each morning,
from the littered highway shoulder,
a shimmering of silver,
unnatural in rhythm
attracts my curious eye.

Perhaps a little man,
too small to see,
turns a fleck of mirror
quickly back and forth,
focusing bits of sunshine
on passing cars and trucks.
SOS, he flashes,
this man at most a half inch tall.

His car is probably stranded,
Matchbox tires sunk in mud,
hood upraised,
plastic engine dead,
a white thread tied high
and flapping in the wake
of rush hour workers,
Christmas shoppers,
sleepless truckers.

How long has he been signalling
for help, this tiny microman,
shrunk from five foot five
when his company downsized?
A cell phone here is useless --
Lilliputian voice lost
in the hum, the roar of tires
whose treads are deeper
than his height.

Scott Speck
12/16/99