No amount of root mass could
steal my hand from the wheel, no
promises of lush acreage or
vilified other – worlders.
The asphalt, I learn, with each passing
hour absorbs less energy than
the grass along each median would.
I learned that from racing.
It’s sucked straight from the soles of
your feet, the very force given to
the soil stolen without a semblance of
barter or remittance.
So I watch from the glass as
each tree becomes flashes,
watercolors of dormant beige
spattered across the window.
Let these wheels sputter out until
I learn to walk on that
which is not made by man.
