I-20's sparkling something special as
summer glares through my windshield.
my white knuckled grip is off season
but it's wrapped around my only stability:
the jerky steering wheel of a car that
needs its tires aligned.
the air smells like ripening southern summer and humidity drips like fruit juice down my brow. the sun pours into green eyes, sets them pale against the sclera.
i can't see what's directly in front of me,
but what's new.
windows down, eighty miles an hour
out of atlanta. i'm alone but even i'm pretending these tears are sweat.
i don't know where i'm going, i never have.
i just drive forward on the hot asphalt
and hope my tires will melt
and the clouds will part
and someone will make sense of it all.
summer was always her favorite season
but i guess that's just another reason
to want it over.