The ceaseless humming of the highway drone,
from afar: through my windows, through the corn
fields, miles, acres, acres; no wheels yet of my own.
American: to the motor-way born.
The need to feel the grip of tires on road
like the nervous tapping of a finger,
is such that if not entertained, explode
is what it might & so, let’s not linger.
The thrill of swift departure, letting go
of duties, obligations, roads that are
rote! With “V” windows vented, good air flow
allows us to smoke at top speeds, the car
as Saviour. Don’t need to leave to feel free,
just feel free to leave: to go is to be.
By James S. Dwyer (6-6-2021)
The Cuttingsville Times 