The creases in the pavement mark the time
for a race of white lines: marathons
that are never complete but unheeded
by spectators in box seats stuck between
the horizons—start line and finish tape.
The cars, each a penny-ante Eden,
are traveling wombs made for insularity
and comfort: rarefied air and clinking
beer bottles container-cooled just behind,
a movie continuously playing
upon the windshield's ever changing screen.
Every need is accounted for, save
human contact; glass walls, penetrated
only by occasional casual glance
that then turns quickly away, embarrassed,
separate one from the other—a gap
too wide for comfortable navigation.
Drivers' eyes wander not—intent on that
point never reached, halfway to the
far horizon—they peripherally
see only a montage of the mundane:
the same signs in an endless progression,
hills painted in muted browns and blank greens
easing by with little relief to break
their endless crawl along the roadside,
and scattered rubber on the shoulder,
remnants of journeys interrupted or
arcadias lost in the summer's heat.
Over those confining ridges, just past
eye's reach, lie gems a mere walk away
shining brightly against monotony,
easily reached should the climate control
be vacated for a only moment or two.
Occasionally though, beauty sneaks past
the hills and creeps to the gray right of way:
children playing soccer on a converted
baseball diamond, their delight dying at
windows barrier, lost to those in close
comfort of endless motion, or a flock
of geese wheeling from a pond, flying
into the past, lost in the rearview mirror.