He’s on his cell phone
but does use his blinker
and flashes his headlights
before switching lanes,
pulling in front of me—
the guy in the red Honda—
both of us going too fast
in the passing lane. I feel
driven to strangle him.
It’s nothing personal,
just the raw rage of being
engaged on the road,
the cracking of a soul
concentrating too hard
not to be hit by anything
from any direction.

There are so many angles,
too many strangers, split–
second, next-window profiles
hiding destinations known
only to others. Nevertheless,
I want to know where
that lane-changing,
Red-Honda Guy is going,
so if he stops in two miles
at that rest area ahead,
I’ll also pull over, ask him,
and then confess my crash
with the irrational urge
to abruptly end his journey;
fortunately for him, my need
just exited at mile marker 252.