In the line of fire,
Shots whisk past your ear.
You feel your heartbeat in your toes.
Roaring engines blur together,
Burrowing in the back of your throat.

Escalating and undulating in waves,
They sear across the way,
Leaving a trail of blaring horns.
You inch above thirty-five,
Wearing tears in the wheel.

The world sets on a tilt, but you don’t go with it.
Creeping sideways, right-ways, wrong-ways,
Wrench left into your lane as
Buckshot nips your nose.
And another flips you the bird.

The ramp of salvation
Draws you away from danger on its sturdy shoulders.
The shelter of solid ground,
Away from racing fiends and stress-driven commuters.

Following the path in peace until it’s too late,
It begins again.
Grabbing you and strapping you back to the platform
Lines solidify, ensuring your fate.

Before you know it,
You’re back in the line of fire.
Lead pellets zooming past your cheeks,
You clutch your life with all the brawn in your fingers,
Eyes shut tight, and the passenger yells:
“Open up!”