Driving

There was a time when

I knew if I made this light

I’d have the next five.

I would take 11^th or 14^th street

to avoid the speed bumps.

Now on my way to elsewhere

I take my driving slow,

enjoy the canopy of trees

(My friend said if it weren’t for speed bumps

he’d have no sex life at all.) 

I have no road-rage in me.

I'm making good time at any speed.

When a poem comes to me 

I write a few words

in the dust on my dashboard.

I can almost smell the cloverleaf,

the curvaceous on-ramps.

I forgive everyone their folly.

Maybe their wives are about to deliver

one of new persons in this world.

I can move over and make room.

We are in this together. We stop

and we go obeying the lights.  

It is called civilization. It gives me hope.

I am steering, asserting and yielding

into the flow, this river of chrome,

now a white water rapid with changing rhythm,

now a symphony, an adagio of traffic

and I in my psychic space with four empty seats,

my mind meandering with great thoughts,

so great I am allowed only a glimpse

in this vehicle, this vessel, this life.