The Drift

I keep both eyes fixed on the road
and my hands are latched on the wheel.

I see the stars
I hear the whine
I feel the road
I fear the drift.

Clarksville will be what takes my life
despite my love of greasy food.

The motor hums
radio sings
the windows fog
here comes the drift.

Freezing night air keeps me alive
any warmth is my enemy.

I blink a mile
I dread sharp curves
Was that a cop?
Not drunk, just drift.

Bed is just thirty endless miles
the Bataan Death March was sixty.

Eyes don’t listen
hands don’t obey
feet don’t respond
trapped in the drift.

Highway 48 my paved hell
but hell has grown quite soft on me.

My left eye dies
welds itself shut
clamps itself tight
struck by the drift.

Clock glows 4 in harsh neon blue
zeroes mock my incessant yawn.

A deadly state
I’m not asleep
I’m not awake
I’m in the d r i f t . . .