Left Lane, No Exit

He used to treat the highway like a dare,

one hand on the wheel, the other lost in the air

pointing out the water towers or the hawks on the wire.

Now he sits too close to the dash, as if he’s on fire

or afraid the road is going to jump up and bite.

His knuckles are white even in the midday light.

We’re doing forty-five in a sixty-five zone,

and the blinker is making its rhythmic, hollow moan.

Click-clack. It’s been on since the last county line.

He’s waiting for a gap that he’ll never define,

his foot hovering over the brake like a nervous bird.

I want to say something, but there isn't a word

for watching a man lose his grip on the speed.

He over-corrects for a bump that doesn't exist, a need

to stay in the middle of a lane that’s already gone.

We just keep blinking, moving slowly, into the dawn.