Splatter-dash
At 75 mph
the pines dot-dot-dash —
splattering sun’s Morse code
into my right eye.
Adjusting sunglasses, the visor,
and struggling to find a station
that isn’t country or crackles
on the radio
while tossing licorice
into the backseat, hoping
it won’t be hosting a marker
painting gallery in two hours.
I remember when
I did this every week,
but when you’re alone, with nothing
except Squirrel Nut Zippers to entertain
you while racing the mountain —
since fixing your car radio
wasn’t on the list of priorities,
you have more time to notice
what’s left behind, and what
you’re really headed towards.
Either way, floating home
to Tiki-faced mountains of blue,
I wonder if they are also
considering me
as their eyebrows knit
up grey storm clouds, wishing
I’d keep my ruckus
contained at the bottom.
