Poem at 100 M.P.H

When the engine growls,
when lane markers shoot
laser-white, and desert blurs
over windshield, dust,
cacti, sagebrush torched by
decades of drought, and the
mountains are waves that
splash when light travels
at the velocity of sleep,
you will lose your breath
a minute too slow as Interstate
blasts thru heat, tarpaulin,
rubber and coolants; you will
witness boxcars roll back-
wards into daylight, toy
motels flash above clouds where
no vulture circles, and sand
and wind beyond yesterday where
you’ve already arrived.