76,202,30 Poem by Christopher J. Grasso

This ideal combination of roads, is Hell’s hiways
Tense, calculated, a grip on the angry road unknown;
the vent fans heat, through the cross section of glittering frost.

I, the commander inside the two ton defense
Surrounded by streaming antagonists who fore arm
Their own dodgy path. My eyes arrow, rear viewed

Aggression that sudden speed’s fears.
The brain consults, hands, shifty avoidance makes a wise choice,
saves future and health. This shortchanged second road eases me,

into trances which vibrate along with the hilled gravel
past the mush of dead animals. Each corpse lingers
the sold changing of woods falling away. Now on Thirty

it rains in Nature’s systematic pockets, hard,
I reach Dawn’s slinky off ramp, and the speed needle
conserves toward a left wing stance in a Southeastern PA night.