Motions of Asphalt Grey
The cars are lined up
down the road,
their headlights twining
the pavement
like bright christmas lights—
all gauzy—
through a fogged window
with cold rain
in percussive taps
drowning out
the thin, algid glass.
The tires screech
against the blacktop,
howling in
wounded animal
pitches where
nobody really
hears a sound.
The air has been still.
The thawing
clouds swell up then soak
the metal
structures ready to
plummet through
the silence, the peace,
the calm that
seems to exist in
the halted
clatter of chaos.
Your hand rests
on the wheel, a faux-
skin surface,
analyzing the
lines that split, the mounts
that rise, and
how each grooves seems to
fit your palm.
You are holding on.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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