Rapid Advance

Jan 2 2012

I am stuck behind the grader.

The stink of diesel

seeps into the car.

The engine, pounding out power

clatters, and roars.

Ignored

by the smoking man

sitting high up over me

enclosed in glass.

The massive steel blade

is churning up snow.

It peels-off, unfolds

in a smooth continuous arc,

hardening fast

in a wall of dirty white.

The road, scraped flat

is an easy drive.

So why am I

so itchy to pass?

Because all I have is speed.

Because I feel so inadequate,

in my cramped compact car

behind this massive machine.

A supplicant

among the powerful.

The small man

who feels he must act

as if he’d conquered France.

But trapped like this

I can’t even be bad,

over-compensate, drive rashly.

The high-pitched whine

is pushing 1st.

The choking fumes

are getting worse and worse.

And I am Napoleon, cocksure,

marching into Russian winter.