Hands on the Wheel

Same route to the store,

same way as before.

Same hesitation at the light,

same grip on the wheel held tight.

His knuckles go white in traffic.

His movements are systematic,

practiced a thousand times or more—

same exit, same turn, same store.

I've memorized the way he leans forward

before each turn, how he's not bothered

by the sameness of it, the weight

of routine. He's made peace with this fate.

I watch his hands on the wheel

and suddenly I feel

the future bearing down:

me in his position, me in this town,

me driving this route thirty years from now,

my hands learning the same how,

my body settling into the same shape,

my life becoming this narrow escape.

He doesn't know I'm watching him become

what I'm becoming. The pattern is done.

The road is set. The grip is tight.

Same route. Same hands. Same light.