Navigating the roads, the thoroughfares, the swirl of exhaust
from motor vehicles tuned and on guard for speed
when it suits them to fly toward a distant light,
fellow travelers shining their bulbs like fireflies
that circle and swoop for a moment before disappearing
behind walls of darkness and lunar fog.
I check the rear view, I check the side mirrors,
I look backward and forward, my eyes a checkered flag
readying to run, to see everything before making my move
to my personal distant landing spot, my place to rest
or to go about my business like the rest of us,
but knowing that the getting there is more fun than the arrival.
My world is my dashboard, my possessions, my trunk
My going far and coming back my only pastime,
the asphalt my deliverance, the road signs my chaperone
life on the Serengeti, the animals the hawks and buzzards
that point their beaks forward unless they find some kill
on the road that is offered as sacrifice to the avian gods.
I bide my time, scan the radio, look for connections in song
and voice that enter my core and lead me unbound and
triggers my brain to remember and relate, to forget
the ones that I've lost, the regrets that I have, the
voices in my own head that pierce the calm surface,
outward waves rippling the waters and fashioning concentric circles.
Drive, he said, for that is the path I must take now,
drive and be part of the human race, reenter the place
where there is purpose, there is motion, there is eternity
go without a map, discard your phone and its lures, just drive
only stop for a fillup, make it quick, don't delay,
for the promise of reward is in movement, not slowdown.
There is no sense of staying in bed, looking up at the world
from a contemplative viewpoint, meditating and regurgitating
that which is now fuzzy soft focus, blurred images
that you want to see but like a movie camera, forces
you to look in the center of the screen where things are clear
but you want to go on, move on, just drive and be a blurry image