The Screen Time

The phone glowed, a cold bright sheet,

showing me the broken miles.

Three hours, forty-seven, neat

in numbers, masking all the trials.

Her voice had cracks, a panicked plea,

pipes burst, a sudden, wet despair.

And I just stared, internally,

at the route line, hanging there.

It isn't just the gas, the drive,

the highway stretching out so far.

It's every moment I revive,

behind the wheel, a guiding star

to problems I can't quite unfix,

just measure out in time and ticks.