A Gentleman's Noose

Sluggish spectres of dust-fine snow

flit across the midnight asphalt,

their trails being flattened by the coarse teeth

of my worn down tires.

The winter moans in the seams of the car.

What line comes next?

That voice who always whispered cues in my ear evaporated a week ago,

and I've been driving in circles ever since.

Tell me who to be, or I'll never figure out where I'm headed.

Tires slip, re-grip, and slip again.

Reviews

[FJ Davis]

Don't give up, Ben!
Before you know it, you'll be on the road, again.