Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Last Day of the Month = Poetry


A peaceful ride at 5:30 in the dark morning,
it feels plenty fast enough at 60 miles per hour.
Snow-wrapped trees appear and disappear mutely
through our side windows;
no other cars share the four lane highway,
our world is void of all other motion.

A tanker truck barrels by on the right,
breaking the silent darkness
like a gleaming silver missile, intent on its target,
relegating me to the status of a bug in its path,
the afterburner of his taillights quickly becoming a speck
over the next knoll of blacktop.

The night has now been pierced,
and silence no longer envelops our short trip.
Now I feel we must get there, be done,
finish the job, join the multitude
that only finds meaning at an inhuman pace,
and my right foot races the engine past 75.

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