Four Hours Flat

The dash says three-fifty-eight to go,

and the highway is starting to drift with snow.

I’m standing by a machine that sells stale gum,

feeling my heart go progressively numb.

The red digits blink like a warning light.

I’m driving toward a house that’s always too tight.

My mother will ask if I’m eating enough,

while I try to ignore all the childhood stuff.

Four hours of road is a long way to lie,

watching the salt trucks and the gray sky.