Miles of asphalt disappear beneath the hungrily spinning wheels of our car
and the crinkled foliage that lines the highway

beyond the loose gravel of the shoulder
Is spun into a blur of speckled shades of grey;
Painted lines on the road shine back in the glare of the headlights-
the only guides we have as we find our way home through the descending night
oblivious, inanimate, and silent.

The sky is white with the last light of day
and the clouds are caught on the horizon like wisps of cotton in a sieve;
my trust is placed in the worn hands guiding the steering wheel.

My head rests on the seatbelt s I doze,
lulled by the quiet roar of the motor and the progress of the wheels on the road-
my cheek rests against my hope for safety
if my trust in those hands is misplaced.

Bare feet on the soft sear cover
canvas flats on the floor of the car
and a sign shines when it is caught in the glare of the headlights
reflecting the sharpness of the bright light

with hostility at its stationary existence
into my half-closed eyes
as I doze, spine drooping to meet the window glass with my face
in catapulting motion

driven by the combustion of things dead before our species was born.

An empty drink cub obscures the face of the digital clock
and I don’t care
I leave it be, for we’ll arrive home when we’re driven the distance through tonight
time is irrelevant in the
shadow of the silhouetted trees that line the highway- beyond the guardrails
as I observe the pricks of light that compose a town
far in the distance;
But there is one who rushes
weaving through the lanes and across the painted lines
not only unsure of which path to take
but sure that he can invent one that the fastest by dodging
the lanes and the guidance they’d offer
in haste to arrive at a home I assure you
he’ll never find.

I’m at peace with the world
quiet in the silence that stretches between our lips as we sit together in the front seat,
willing to surrender my ability to guide myself forwards
with the assurance that

We’re heading home.