Beth Johnson
Here behind the wheel, my thoughts are
tonnage in the cranium,
compressing matters without simplifying
anything.
Their force attracts all that is bleak and
discarded on this crowded
highway, scrap metal
rusted and pocked, layered with
lame attempts to hide scars.
At such speed where am I to go but forward, dangerously, and into what?
Each car passing could be my
death, when once I had
life strapped in so neatly.
And what if I am
drawn to it? What if I
ride the blind spots, tail the
hot-rod, aggravate the
lane change?
Would life end quickly
without a sound?
Or would there be a droning horn
distorted like my body in the arcade mirror,
moaning like a Tom Waits song,
floating into the slow screech where rubber meets metal and metal meets concrete
Would I journey through space, leave my
body before graving the asphalt,
a grotesque specimen
haunting an innocent passerby
Better then
to pull off into a dark
parking lot, lock the door, and
walk toward a distant light
’til a stranger says
“Hey lady,
your lights are on.”
