There is a daily press
of choked and choking highways
which builds with every clogging entry
onto the night-slicked roads of early, early day.

And in these quiet moments
there is a flow before the damming,
an early morning thrust,
a humming rhythm unbroken
by dawdlers, stragglers, and timidity—
and steady in its speed,
in its intent—
for each of us is bound somewhere,
gliding through the tenuous dark before the dawn...
onward, onward, toward the common want:
to get there, to be there,
to flee.

No trace of malice on these oily roads.
We're willfully oblivious, in the darkness, to competing
for this is about camaraderie, accomplishing the mission,
not jockeying as we sleek riders race together
toward our unseen finish lines.

Out of the city we swim
we, platelets in arterial interstates,
retracing maps of varicose America
fully committed to memory by routine...

Each of us under dark cover, anonymity,
off to our next great moment
somewhere beyond the dark,
somewhere distant—
we, restless morning road-goers
(not travelers, though just as road-weary
as those souls who'll follow and go still farther)
pushing our limits, pushing the bounds
of speed, of macadam, and of phosphorescent paint—
the exhaust in the air less bitter than our own exhaustion.

But duty drives us ever on.
Thankless, unaware,
known only by the fellow shadows on the road
we operators
with identical goals—
not destinations, but results:
to get there, to be there,
to flee
before the sun can catch us.

10/19/2011

Posted on 11/29/2011
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