By John R. Greenwood
Souped up Honda Civics play pretend as the throaty four-cylinder's rpm's reach a boiling point entering the interstate.
A mud-caked logging truck, loaded high with pulp the size of a Buick, grumbles to an abrupt stop as the light turns red and causes a change of yellow light plans.
Giant men with scrubby beards and shiny new Ford 150's stomp the peddle to the floor pushing a twenty dollar bill into the carburetor and forcing it out the Pep Boy's after-market tailpipe.
Dirty haired girls with their arms out the window flick their cigarettes into the air-the red glow of ashes spraying across the blacktop.
A boisterous Harley with all the fixin's sings in the distance-- insisting everyone in Clinton County pay attention.
Grandma and grandpa ooze onto #87 South--with any luck they'll reach Florida by fall.
I take another sip of coffee and put my feet on the window sill.
A slicked up red Mustang leaves the light like he has someplace to be.
My head bobs, the noise isn't noise it's sleeping pills wrapped in horsepower.
I push off my untied shoes with my toes.
I'm at peace.
My heart and my feet breathe a sigh of relief.
When I drove a van, I would drop into bed after eighteen hours of work, eight or ten on the interstate, and hear the hum of the tires in my head and wake up from dreams featuring the flashing red and blue lights I'd passed.
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