Left Signal On

The wipers are set to a frantic, high speed,

clearing a vision he doesn't seem to need.

He’s got both hands locked at ten and two,

white-knuckled on the leather, pushing through.

He pulled into the fast lane a mile back,

merging in a gap that looked like a crack.

But the blinker kept ticking its rhythmic beat,

a dry, hollow clicking in the humid heat.

I want to reach over and flip the plastic stalk,

but he’s staring ahead, refusing to talk.

He thinks he’s still signaling a change in the way,

while we just drift straight in the blur of the gray.