Route 132
Judith Janoo
Alright,
I’ll pull over
and let you pass
on this
fog-hung
winding road.
I’m not
hurrying, not
tonight.
I’ll give way
gladly, as I look
for a shoulder
to hold me,
where turns
are sharper
than wit,
and seeing
means feeling
a way forward.
Did I just miss
a clearing
braking out
of your high beams’
blinding?
Each town meeting
we let go
of straightening
this road, meandering
with the river,
settling for stasis,
for danger,
only in haste—
your rush
once was mine,
the impatience
to get wherever
there was—
and then
what?
