Four Hours and Twenty-Two Minutes

My mother calls and says my brother's something wrong,

nothing emergency, nothing that can't wait long,

and I pull up the GPS, the route already saved,

and there it is: 4 hours 22 minutes, engraved

on the screen, the little car on the highway,

the arrival time blinking in red, the way

it always does, and I'm looking at the number

like it's a sentence, like I'm under

some verdict about how much distance

I've allowed, what's my excuse, what's my chance

to make the drive, to show up, to be

the person who crosses the geography,

and I could leave right now, could arrive

by nightfall, the highway doesn't care if I thrive

or stall, my mother doesn't care probably,

she just wanted me to know, she just wanted to see

that something was wrong, and I know it now,

I'm knowing it, but I don't know how

to turn that knowing into going,

so I'm just staring at a screen that's showing

me hours, just counting the time,

and I could make it mine, but I don't, and the crime

is not in the distance, it's in the staying,

it's in the knowing and the not saying

yes, it's in the GPS waiting,

it's in my mother guessing

that I'm on my way, and I'm still

sitting here, looking at the hill

of hours between me and her,

and nothing is going to occur

unless I move, unless I choose,

unless I stand up and refuse

to let the distance be enough.

But it is enough. It's rough.

It's enough to keep me still,

and I know that it will.