amphibi.us

Sure my hands grip the  wheel,
anything to convince myself
I’m steering this  contraption.
You sit beside me, neat as  your
fingers around a  cigarette,
as the coils of  smoke
that rise to the  ceiling,
pass through the  metal.
The dashboard grins up at  me
with a smorgasbord of  lights,
of indicators,
nothing to tell me where I  am,
just the speed of going  nowhere,
how much gas i have left to get  there.
Your last words zip  by
like a sleeker, faster  model,
shake me off  course,
or shove from  behind,
make me go faster
than my  intentions,
then push hard against the  front
like a brazen  isometric
exercise in pain.
Mile after shattered  mile,
another highway  victim
counts his life into the  statistics,
with caustic eyes,
short-circuited breath.
And here’s you staring at the  road ahead,
as if you are the only  one
with a right to a  destination,
and me, stunned and  fearful,
these nights when the deer in the  headlights
is the one driving the car.

© John Grey, 2010

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