April 30, 2024

ahead
for E.

You want the whole scene and who wouldn’t? The horizon line, a fix
to depend on, leaning your foot against the gas, plowing on. 
But traffic’s slowing for no discernible reason and the panorama cleaves 
from your sights. It could be temporary enough, but oh for a billboard 
that spells this out in pixels and stopwatches, so you know to pace yourself.
Instead, cinder blocks and upended cones in the median. Someone’s shoe 
on the roughshod shoulder. Fast-food wrappers, a strip of spent tire. 
The radio static, near-dead. A rest stop miles away, the coffee long cold. So now,
the rumble underneath’s the one sure thing. The narrow length ahead, the view.
Just you and the lane and the lane and you.