Thoughts in a quiet car.

Coming Home

I am driving purposefully, hands placed at ten and two
Just as they taught me, in those ridiculously outdated metal machines,
Using reel to reel film showing little blond boys darting across the street.
Each time I turn to check my blind spot I feel a stab in my chest,
But I keep checking, looking forward, behind to the side;
After all these years I cannot help myself.
I judge the lane position of other cars, watch drivers make poor decisions
And each judgment pulls me down from the center.
Yet, I am so thoroughly engrossed that I missed my turn and now
Must go the long way around.