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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=530650" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Motions of Asphalt Grey</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=530650" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The cars are lined up<br>down the road, <br>their headlights twining<br>the pavement<br>like bright christmas lights—<br>all gauzy—<br>through a fogged window<br>with cold rain<br>in percussive taps<br>drowning out<br>the thin, algid glass.<br>The tires screech<br>against the blacktop, <br>howling in<br>wounded animal<br>pitches where<br>nobody really<br>hears a sound.<br>The air has been still.<br>The thawing<br>clouds swell up then soak<br>the metal<br>structures ready to<br>plummet through<br>the silence, the peace, <br>the calm that<br>seems to exist in<br>the halted<br>clatter of chaos.<br>Your hand rests<br>on the wheel, a faux-<br>skin surface, <br>analyzing the<br>lines that split, the mounts<br>that rise, and<br>how each grooves seems to<br>fit your palm.<br>You are holding on.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Tim+Stensloff">Tim Stensloff</a></strong></div>