Sometimes you turn the car key
and drive through day and night, the cell phone
turned off, windows open and your hair swirling,
Don Williams’ Fever and Roy Orbison’s Pretty Woman
reverberating, your fingers thrumming
against the steering wheel. Tire treads’ hum
swallowed in asphalt. But you don’t care. You speed.
Sometimes you want no alternative
route.
You are a master.
Amen!
And sometimes old enough to know how to drive–to write poetry.
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