Exit 14

The semi-truck tears the dark in two.

Its high beams flood the cab,

turning my dirty windshield into a wall.

I see the mess I’ve made of the week:

the grease-stained bag, the discarded shirt,

the stack of mail I haven't opened.

Then the light is gone,

leaving only the green burn of the clock.

It hangs on the side window,

a floating number 4:12,

mocking the distance between two towns

that look exactly the same.