The solemn disc of the sun distracts me
as I follow the sluggish convoy
out of the city, its brightness
blunted -- like a penny gone brown --
by the same gritty mist that
sits on the road like a fat haze;
so dulled down that I can blink
at its round orangeness
(even though I know I shouldn't).
And then I remember the road
And I sigh at my creeping progress
And wrinkle my nose against the dirty scent
of exhaust and impatience
And wish that I could peel its sticky fingers from my skin
And breathe /clean/ again.
(c) 2004 Marion McDowell