Spoiler
Needless to say, this poem was written in the car.
A silver vehicle outside the
car window, an infinite freeway,
dictated by white lines and
speed limits. Exit lanes passed,
the untold stories of dead ends,
and a semi’s caution: content unknown,
wide right turns. But there are no turns,
except perhaps for that one
up ahead, defined by trees and a
passing cloud; it is One Way, and
we cannot turn back; no,
we cannot go back that way.
Life streaking by outside
a car window, the back
license plate of a silver car,
flaunting the white letters,
illuminated by brake lights,
and a sun hidden behind trees;
does construction slow us down,
or does it only make us stronger?
We must pump this gas ourselves,
or be thrown out thirsty, until
we question whether this truly is
the Wrong Way, for we have not crashed yet.
