The Drive

 

 

My hand was the only thing that color.

The sky was like gruel and the rain thick.

I slid down the highway, my car a red bubble,

and skidded in steam on the wet slick.

 

Raw outside weather but inside so warm.

I'd chosen sad music to make me smile.

Trees half-dressed for fall fell past

then I slowed for the final mile.

 

Exiting down the hill, waiting for green,

the poise is precise and on wheels hands tight.

But too late. Someone taps on our windows.

The future smiles at each of us and asks for a light.

 

© 2000 Gregor Everitt