November 14, 2009PassengerRebecca Clark

I wonder at your nonchalance
as you drive one-handed,
not even that—
two-fingered, really
while the world flies by
at 70 miles per hour.

How am I to intervene,
save us from our fate—
pinpoints that bloom
into brick walls
in that instant I look up
to the morning sky?

A wedge of swans flies west.
Some ride a tail of wind so strong
all they do is glide, wings wide,
on nothing but open air.