My Path Is Not Linear

Driving Alone

At night, after work, all was calm

In my small seaside town.

All I could hear were the calls

Of children in yards running around

Chasing fireflies or counting shooting stars.

Earth's wet metronome echoed westward

And rhythmic waves sang in the moon's spotlight.

Often in my first months of driving

I would forget to turn on my headlights

And squint at moonlit strips of yellow and white

On pavement still warm, long after the sun is gone.

The hairs on my left arm dance

In the summer's salty air: so quiet and cool

It makes me forget that is June.

I take my time at each stoplight

Letting my blinker sync

With the Lumineer's Ophelia

As I turn right towards the east, away from home.

On Route 35, I fly down the shoreline

Until the inlet forces me back around.

Its parking lot illuminated by lights of car lovers

And I remember to switch on my own.

It's the best form of free therapy,

To sing out to the seagulls

And any boardwalk drunk who cares to listen.

With my left hand on the wheel,

Less than cautious on my lonely roads.

I use my fingers to free my hair

From their jailhouse plaits,

That only a drive can dry

The sweat of the long day,

And brush out the worries of yesterday.