Asleep At The Wheel

In the rush hour at dusk, dim head lamps cut
brighter paths; cars resign their shapes to twilight
unravelling identities. And hovering overhead,
the landing beams of the jet bow down
against the swallowed mountains, arch
landward, and burn faintly out of the gray plane of sky,
knowing which way means bending to inertia, which
to a sundered state of travel. The steering column
yields to the shepherding of tired trucks, the abulia
of radial tires etching pavement. The planet
brakes and the driver's body turns its maps
and latitudes to place itself where it cannot
arrive for miles of stops, so willing to let
the landscape be God's proxy, urging "home"
to seek what gives it origin and
earn its own rest.

© Karl J. Sherlock