Oafishly Awed Driver
At the steering wheel,
I am inanely awed
by how my car greedily gulps down
into its hood that interminable stretch
of gray highway snaking out as a huge,
obsidian conveyor belt
from the edge of the earth
where the rim of the opalescent sky
at daybreak
begins.
In the same oafish wonder,
I see the pavement itself rush in
and zoom in an ashen blur
under the wan headlights,
only to be belched out as smoky smithereens
filling up the rearview mirror,
disappearing into the oblivion
of speed and distance
far, far
behind.
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