Poem
Hands on the wheel, changing lanes,
tailgated - no chance
to note you, or
your words’ transparence, ghosting
road surface, radio music, drumming
memory.
Knowing I can’t catch you, even
though
you’re near perfection, afraid
one day I’ll let go in the fast
lane,
take my hands off the wheel:
write you down.
D.A. Prince
If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be
pleased to
hear them.