Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

Blur

It’s just me
Driving on highway fifty-six
Two lanes
One lane going North,
One lane going South.

I’m going north...
Sixty miles per hour,
On my way to work.
The night shift.

Miles of car,
After car,
After car,
After car...
Is headed South.

Headlights approach...
Headlights pass...
They’re blinding in this darkness.
Headlights of cars going South
Driven by people
Coming home from work.
The day shift. 

As I go North to work
The night shift.
I rest my elbow on my Impala’s door 
Where the interior and window meet.

A few minutes pass
Before I notice
The side of my head
Is pressed against the cool glass
Of the window
Rolled down less than an inch,
Beginning the last week of November
In middle-of-no-where Minnesota.

The air comes in through the crack
I use to ash my cigarette 
From time to time.
I should be startled 
Shocked 
Awaken...
By the icey caress 
From the air through the open window
As it touches my skin,
And I’m reminded of the snow storm 
That is coming soon.

It’s chilling...
How many miles go by 
Before I notice how close
My vehicle is to the center line.
Me on the drivers side.
Leaning against the door and window
As if trying to be even closer
To the lane of cars going South.
Car after car after car after

Car...
I should have been counting.
How many people travel North
Early in the morning
Before the sun is up
To work all day
So they can travel South
In the evening
After the sun is back down
To be home all night.

Their headlights,
All different;
Some dim,
Some blinding,
Some two,
Some one,
Some.....perfect.

But as they pass...
One after the other
What I see,
Becomes nothing but a blur.
A blur of lights
Luring me closer 
And closer
To that center line.
So close I’m almost daring to cross it.

Eight miles I have traveled
And I forgot I was even in the car,
As my mind wandered.
Worried thoughts fly in and out
As I try to Simultaneously ease 
My anxious heart beating.

I slowly sit up,
Away from the window
Away from the door,
And I notice my cigarette
Has let itself out 
From lack of being needed.

I come back,
From the blur of headlights
That have passed me.
One after the other.
I remember;

I am late.
By my own choice.
By my own procrastination 
By my own self destruction. 

Two miles away
From work
On highway fifty six
Going sixty miles an hour
Until I am required
By law
To press my foot to the brake pedal
And slow down
As I come into town.

I am headed North
Mine is the only car in my lane
On my way to work 
The night shift.
While the lane going South
Hardly has a break of cars in line
As they head home
After working the day shift.

Suddenly,
I am at work.
Somehow.
I’m not sure how.
And my drive
Was nothing more than a blur.