The Drive

All of the windows of the Ford Focus are silently slid.

Gusts of untamed oxygen and nitrogen eagerly suffocate

The lungs and gag the eardrums, obscuring the tune blaring

From the speaker.  But this afternoon, the atmosphere refuses

To be sedentary while the shining, steering black bug scuttles

Towards sixty-seven miles per hour up route 390, converting

The grilling ninety-one degree vapors of air into a caroling

Chorus of April wind, rendering all other songs inferior.

As the sun’s swords, in a crescendo of flame, goldens

The parched grass into seven million fiery, twirling, hissing

Emerald blades, my blistered palms secrete sweat as they clutch

The steering wheel.  With one deft motion they may screech

The tires to the left or right, yet another note subtly uttered

Into the symphony.  They are in control-I am in control-

My life literally in my hands.  My teeth, in a half grin, grit.

The grinding of enamel vibrates soundlessly, lost in euphony.

Under these blinding, bellowing heavens, the melody refuses

To cease-the wind only persists in its strumming.  The Ford hums

Along to the orchestra.  I wonder: the greatest song ever echoed,

Produced by a commute on a Saturday in June?  I will realize,

 Long before my foot, exhausted, releases the pedal and brakes,

How damn incredible this life can be.  But for now my body feels

Only the speed, the thrill, the vocalization of molecules whizzing

Above the Earth that is common in any old, boring, afternoon ride.