That visual anomaly kept our feet
firmly to the track; it dangled feverishly,
the only touch it suffered was the slow
brush of our finger tips that bled as soon
as they made contact.
That peaceful sign that hung from the
rear-view mirror, your eyes for once fixed
firmly on the road. You mutter past my
complaints that pass as easily as those
rusted road signs you constantly ignore.
The moon heavy, its beams cutting through
the collapsing rooftops like blunted bread
knives, each slice a constant reminder
that no matter how fast we travel, we
end up back at this same point.
And as you slam on the breaks, that
sudden stop shakes us both into awareness
to the fact that escape from these easy
comforts would be hardly worth the effort;
to change our route just a futile exercise.