Each mile
brings me closer
to the arctic circle,
bright halo of the planet
weeping ice.
Several screens
tell me how cold it is,
how fast I am,
the limit to how fast
I can be.
I am beginning to tire
of gray highways,
of the glut and spread
of Wal-Marts and Dunkin’s and Chili’s.
To tire of never getting to stop
at lights or in traffic
to dine on the dramas
through other car windows:
laughter
and singing
and other elements
of surviving.
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