Three Exit Ramps

The GPS says four hours and twelve,

but the red line of traffic is starting to bleed.

It’s a different kind of math to shelve

the guilt that comes with a lack of speed.

I hit a pothole at sixty-five,

the dashboard clock flickers and skips a beat.

It’s a long, hollow chore to stay alive

in the middle of all this shimmering heat.

I bought a soda at the rest stop back there,

sticky and warm in the plastic cup.

I’m halfway between her house and nowhere,

watching the arrival time climb back up.