Ten and Two

He doesn't look at the scenery.

He looks at the white line on the right.

His hands are locked at ten and two

with the knuckles showing white.

The needle is twitching on the dial,

exactly two miles over the mark.

He’s driving like the car is a cage

hurtling us through the dark.

He hovers his hand over the horn

but he never actually lets it scream.

He just holds the anger in his wrists

and stays in the middle of the stream.