Of all things straight and narrow
I find myself caught between pink taillights,
And blinding headers.
I don’t know whether I am,
Following or leading anymore.
Or if I should be just OK with this middle,
I have become a part of.
As the nights blend into days,
And 40 turns into another 80.
I realize this winter keeps hanging on like an itchy scarf.
Though these mile markers slip by,
Like spilled paint on the interstate,
Or the frozen ice left by the November flood.
Creating more glares in these,
Mirrors I don’t look into anymore.