Making Speed
Nov 16 2008


Rain-slicked pavement glistens,
headlights drizzle through the windshield,
and street-lamps stand in reflecting pools
that brim with watery light
— like a string of pearls, driving by,
glowing on either side.

The signals are smears of coloured light
red and yellow and green,
clicking through their sequence,
keeping vacant streets
obedient.
So the city seems ordered, at peace.

Tires slap
on asphalt, glistening black,
the wipers thwack hypnotically.
And the windows blush with mist,
as she reaches across
rests her hand above my knee
gives a gentle squeeze,
making speed.
Like the milkman’s horse, picking-up the pace —
the barn door open, glowing;
warm oats, and a bed of hay.

Then her knowing smile, as if to say
“almost home
. . . can’t wait!”