You see it and you go
impulse born of need
to move in advance of the horn.
This is America,
someone’s always on your ass,
better be on your way.
It makes no difference who compels you forth:
board of directors, family dog
everything is wheels
the gear is drive, not park
I’ve always hated highway,
but loved it all the same
Truck driver blood from my dad,
lived on a gravel road.
You don’t get passed much in places like that,
tailgating is goddamned rare
You can really feel you’re going places
though the destination’s drab
forfeit feat and risk and thrill
at the altar of the same
Then you find yourself in the city
a land of start and stop
not much forward movement
despite the illusion of flow
Where can a person go?
What can a person do?
Deadlock at every turn
My husband rides his bike for hours, intersection-free
the allure is understood
Like when I used to run for miles
the crunch of rock beneath my feet
passage as far as the eye can see
Freed from the shackle of constant crossroads
On the one hand: little growth
On the other: little fear.