I always rush home. When in that kind of hurry,
Having to use the higher road;
I skim along the North-South Corridor, without memory.
Lights on, seatbelt tight, dusk on the western side,
Avoiding the State Police, first star hints, glinting of a day gone night.
I am just… plain whooshing along. Doing my best, with the radio on,
Wishing, to slow down.
Where are my warning signs?
That curve is best taken in a straight line.
Slow down! Change the station.
Lights on, seatbelt tight, strapping me in with all I own
Gets quickly loosen by an exit’s neon sign.
I am familiar with the wolf’s den,
The back road caves, un-protected marshes,
And the snapping turtles shallow haven.