I fell asleep again to the sound of traffic on the freeway:
Seventy-five miles an hour and I’m asleep behind the wheel,
Dreaming yellow lines, swallowed whole by spinning rubber.
I can dream a whole new road, but that won’t make it real
Don’t drift across that thin yellow line: death is whirring past.
A hundred and fifty MPH of twisted metal; I am inches from a crash.
Black rubber tires stain the concrete, screeching through my brain;
Gravel, blood and spit scrape together into a gory road rash
My life is in that crush of metal, bone, and uncongealed blood
In the shards of glass and the guttural rawness of my terror
In my hyperventilation and neurotic, spastic, shaking fear
My life is in my debilitating phobias: no margin here for error
Stop. Stop. Don’t go. Stop!
Smash.
(March, 2006)
