Arthur Gottlieb

TRIP

Gears grit their teeth
against speed, but foot
flat to the floorboard,
I take every curve the road throws
on two wheels.

Wrong forks eat up miles
forcing me to travel
for days on fumes.

In the rearview mirror
a backseat driver tells me
where to get off
and on the Interstate,
but I step on it without stopping.

I can’t kill the urge
to get anywhere I’m not
in a hurry. Trying to slow me
rain drives spikes into the windshield,
but I maintain the pace
the monotonous wipers dictate.

Splashing past hitchhikers,
my five star magnum wheels
shoot up wings of water.
People I pass appear lost
like angels in clouds
of exhaust, yet in dreams
they roll as torsos in my trunk.

Safety zones don’t slow me.
One eye glued to the schools
the other enters the city
enhancing my chances to reach
the place I really want to be.

—from Rattle #25, Summer 2006