By Willow Rose
Thoughts best left unsaid appear; peripheral nudge
in my mind’s ear.
And the radio blares and the fingers jab
at buttons I can’t see; Eyes off the road again,
adjusting the A. C.;
Best left unsaid roll around my head
as ribbons of road unravel; thoughts of crashing
through iron guard-rails; arcing in mid-air a moment,
silver underbelly hooked fish flash,
the plummet down, crimson streaks on grass already
brown, the lure of the green white plate and chrome
the shriek of metal on metal and bone;
while the radio plays.
Yet we pay our tolls; drive to where
we think we must go;
Unaware of possible exits;
Passing fellow phantoms on the freeway;
Singing along to a favorite song though dumb
to the notes that may never leave their throats;
three kids in the back seat crook their arms,”Blow your horn,”
they scream at the semi-driver; he obliges as they crest the hill.
Unaware of the five strong young heartbeats
One false swerve of the wheel could still.
©Willow Rose 2012