Central Artery by Jim Laughlin
The median strip's cropped grass salutes
dryly by the thousands to the thousands
purring sweet exhaust sufficient to slump the stars.
Open for traffic tonight, this black tongue
pounded and striped by singed work-crews
leads us on flattened into darkness.
Jaundiced-eyed cars behind follow
in four neat rows, in four neat rows
ahead red taillights glow like cancer sticks.
Mile marker, green sign, exit ramp,
mile marker, green sign, exit ramp:
the freshly-oiled smell of order
slicks on into the distance.
I keep apace, checking the rearview
over and over for the driver I hope for--
weaving, excited, drunk, driving
without a number plate
and, if forced at last to the shoulder,
impervious to the electric blue pulse,
refusing to let his breath be captured.
