Exit 14

The engine ticks in the driveway’s throat,

a cooling heart beneath the heavy hood.

I’m shedding miles like a winter coat,

half-convinced that the silence is good.

I passed the place where the flares had bled,

orange scars on the shoulder’s gray skin.

The metal was gone, the questions all said,

leaving only the dark where the pines begin.

I look to the right and see my own eyes

hovering there in the side-window glass.

They float in the trees as the moonlight dies,

watching the ghosts of the commuters pass.

I’m a ghost myself, or a trick of the light,

a name on a license, a blur on the dash.

Just another stranger driving through the night

without making a sound, without making a crash.