Drive Time Poem by william padgett

Twenty four miles from work to home,
I coexist with the smell of dog and leather,
hints of the former owner: cigarettes, fries,
a pine tree hanging long ago.

A German engineered decompression chamber
filled with the chorus of snow tires,
the rhythm of the windshield wipers,
EIB or NPR, ZZ Top or Verdi.

Mind rambles, hypnotic trances,
skewed musings zip by as the landscape
transforms from cement to corn,
front yards to back forty.

Familiar landmarks become invisible,
stringing roadside beads of fast food cartons,
deer bodies, used diapers, beer cans,
fast food cartons and election signs.

It is not the same, sitting on a bus, train or plane,
not driving, a passenger, not in control,
there you are merely the cargo, not the pilot
an audience not the player.

After a day entwined with people’s lives
Coursing homeward to the family
Traveling from one reality to the next.
I feel that light feeling of not being attached.

So you solve the problems of the world:
hunger, poverty, racism, war, or fix a leak.
I build a city, create a drawing,
foil a plot, and write a poem.

Somewhere between here and there,
aware but distracted, automatic yet focused,
navigating in the twilight of mind sparks,
as I watch the side of the road for clues.

I carefully guide myself between the
parallel lines that just ahead will separate,
one the road that leads home,
and the other that leaves it.